I  il!ili 


C 1.,^ 


iiiiiiii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


HANDBOOK 

OF 

BEST^     READINGS 


HANDBOOK 

OF 

BEST    READINGS 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED 
J.         BY 

S.   H.   CLARK 


PROFESSOR    OF    PUBLIC    SPEAKING    IN    THE    UNIVERSITY    OF    CtHCAGr® 

AUTHOR    OF    "PRACTICAL    PUBLIC    SPEAKING,"    "HOW   TO 

TEACH    READING    IN    THE    PUBLIC    SCHOOLS" 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 

NEW  YORK         CHICAGO         BOSTON 


C5 


Copyright,  1902,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 
P 


PREFACE 

The  purpose  in  making  this  compilation  has  been 
to  select  good  literature  suitable  for  reading  aloud. 
Good  literature,  because  no  public  reader  should  pre- 
sent anything  but  that  to  his  audience;  literature  that 
will  read  aloud,  because  (while  there  is  good  literature 
that  will  not  read  aloud,  and  much  so-called  literature 
that  will)  there  is  need  for  vital,  interesting,  sound 
selections  suitable  for  public  presentation. 

In  making,  then,  the  choice  of  material  for  this 
book,  it  has  been  the  aim,  first,  to  choose  that  which 
had  a  fair  claim  to  be  classed  as  literature.  Every 
story  is  not  a  classic,  nor  is  every  lyric  a  gem  of  purest 
ray  serene;  but  conscientious  effort  has  been  made 
to  present  tragedy  that  is  ennobling,  pathos  that  is 
true,  melodrama  that  is  sane,  and  humor  that  is  sweet 
and  pure.  The  second  purpose  has  been  to  insert 
only  selections  that  will  read  aloud :  that  is,  selections 
that  will  hold  the  attention  of  the  audience;  and  the 
effort  has  been  vain  if  the  readings  appeal  not  to  the 
auditor  of  average  intelligence  alone,  but  as  well  to 
one  of  taste  and  culture.  An  experience  of  twenty 
years  as  a  public  reader  and  teacher  should,  I  believe, 
give  one  some  insight  into  the  psychology  of  an 
audience;  and,  with  this  experience  in  mind,  I  think 
it  is  not  overstating  the  truth  to  say  that  every  selec- 


VI  PREFACE 

tion  in  this  book  will  read  aloud;  and  will,  moreover, 
give  pleasure  both  to  the  hearer  and  the  reader. 

There  is  a  further  object  which  one  may  hope  this 
book  to  accomplish :  to  supply  to  classes  in  literature 
a  wide  range  of  material,  the  appreciation  of  which 
may  be  tested  through  vocal  interpretation.  Teach- 
ers of  literature  everywhere  are  recognizing  the  rela- 
tion of  vocal  expression  to  literary  interpretation.  In 
the  Introduction  I  have  dwelt  at  some  length  upon 
this  theme.  It  is,  therefore,  only  necessary  to  say 
here  that,  if  our  students  of  literature  are  to  read  aloud, 
they  must  have  literature  appropriate  to  that  purpose. 
"  The  Excursion  "  is  true  literature,  "  Endymion  "  is 
true  literature;  but  they  will  not  read  aloud.  Words- 
worth's "  Michael  "  is  also  real  literature;  and  it  will 
read  aloud.  The  principle  that  has  led  me  to  omit  the 
first  two  and  insert  the  other  has  guided  me  through- 
out. 

A  word  concerning  the  "  cutting  "of  certain  selec- 
tions may  not  be  out  of  place.  Narratives  in  prose 
and  verse  that  depend  for  their  effect  primarily  upon 
the  art  and  interest  of  the  story-telling  rather  than 
upon  literary  merit,  have  been  cut  down  so  that  they 
may  be  read  within  from  fifteen  to  twenty-five  min- 
utes; but  others,  depending  primarily  upon  their  form, 
such  as  Michael,  are  inserted  in  full,  in  order  that  stu- 
dents may  have  the  opportunity  of  studying  them 
in  their  completeness.  Should  the  student  desire  to 
read  selections  from  the  latter  in  public,  he  must  make 
a  "  cutting  "  according  to  his  own  taste  and  judg- 
mentc 


CONTENTS 

PAca 
Preface »  .       v 

Introduction    ...» .     .     xv 


PROSE 

DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 
There  \\  ere  Ninety  and  Nine  .  Richard  Harding  Davis       3 

From    "Gallegher  and  Other  Stories,"  by  permission   of  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons. 

The  Revolt  of  Mother     .     .     .  Mary  E.   Wilkitis     .     .     27 

A  Second  Trial Sarah  W.  Kellogg    .     .     39 

How  the  Derby  Was  Won  .     .  Harrison  Robertson  .     .     45 

From  "Stories  of  the  South,"  abridged,  by  permission  of  the  author  and 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

His  Mother's  Sermon      .     .     .  /an  Maclaren       ...     70 

Published   by  permission,    from    "  Beside    the   Bonnie    Briar   Bush,"  by 
Ian  Maclaren.    Copyright,  1894,  1896,  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

The  Race  With  the  Flames      .    W.  H.  H  Murray  .     .     8i 
Jean  Valjean  and  the  Bishop    .    Victor  Hugo    •     .     =     •     93 

From  "  Les  Miserables.'' 


PATHETIC 

The  Old  Man Eugene  Field      .     .     .119 

From   "  A   Little  Book   of   Profitable   Tales,"  by  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  publishers  of  the  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

The  Soul  of  the  Violin     .     .     .   Margaret  M.  Merrill    .   124 

Thrown  Away Rudy ard  Kipling     .     .130 

vii 


Vlil  .  CONTENTS 


HUMOROUS 

PAGI 

When  Angry  Count  a  Hundred  E.    Cavazzi     ....   143 

By  permission  of  the  Century  Company. 

The  Cyclopeedy Eugene  Field  .     .     .     .154 

From  "  A  Little  Book   of   Profitable   Tales,"  by  permission   of   Charles 
Scribner's  Sons,  publishers  of  the  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

The  Parson's  Conversion     .     .    W.  H.  H.  Murray    .     .162 

From  "  How  Deacon  Tubman  and  Parson  Whitney  Kept  New  Year's." 

On  Babies Jerome  K.  Jerome     .     .173 

From    "Idle     Thoughts     of    an     Idle     Fellow,"   published    by    Henry 
Holt  &  Co. 

Dick   Swiveller  and    the    Mar- 
chioness     Charles  Dickens  .     .     .182 

From  "  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop." 

The  Reconsidered  Verdict  .     .    Gilbert  Venahles  .     .     .190 
The  Imaginary  Invahd    .     .     .  Jerome  K.  Jerome     .     .196 

From  "Three  Men  in  a  Boat,"  published  by  Henry  Holt  &  Co. 

That    Other    Baby   at    Rudder 

Grange Frank  R.  Stockton    .     .200 

Abridged  from   "  Rudder  Grange,"  by  permission   of  Frank  R.  Stock- 
ton and  the  publishers,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


HUMOROUS  DIALECT 

A  Christmas  Guest  ....  Ruth  McEnery  Stuart  .  2H 
The  Return  of  the  Hoe  .  .  .  Drake's  Magazine  .  .222 
How  Jinny  Eased  Her  Mind    .    Thomas  Nelson  Page     .   226 

From  "Pastime  Stories,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

Saunders    McGlashan's    Court- 
ship       David  Kennedy    .     .     .235 

The  One-Legged  Goose        .     .  F.  TTopkinson  Smith       .   242 

From     "Colonel    Carter    of    Cartersville,"    by   permission    of,    and    by 
arrangement  with,  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

The  Twa  Coortins  ....  David  Kennedy  .  .  .  246 
The  Ship  of  Faith       ....  Anonymous      ....   250 


CONTENTS  IX 

POETRY 

DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

PAGE 

The  Sorrow  of  Rohab     .     .     .  Arlo  Bates      .     ,     .     .   255 

By  peniiissioii  of  the  author. 

The  Boy  and  the  Angel       .     .  Robert  Browning      .     .266 
Chicjuita        Francis  Bret  Harte       .   269 

Used  bv  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement   with,  Messrs.    Houghton, 
Miffiin  &  Co. 

Carcassonne Giistave  Nadaud      .     .271 

Translated   by   Francis    F.   Browne,     By  permission  of   Mr.    Francis   F. 
Browne. 

The  Last  Fight Lewis  F.  Tooker       .     .273 

By  permission  of  the  author  and  the  Century  Co.upany. 

Instans  Tyrannus Robert  Browning      .     .278 

Emma  and  Eginhard       .     .     .  Henry  W.  Longfelina   .   280 

Used   by  permission  of,  and    by  arrangement  with,    Messrs.   Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co.,  pubUshers  of  Longfellow's  works. 

The  Ballad  of  Judas  Iscariot      .  Robert  Buchanan      .     .   287 
"One,  Two,  Three  "  >    .     .     .  Henry  C.  Biinner     .     .   295' 

From  "  Poems  of  H.  C.   Bunner,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 

The  Leper Nathaniel  P.   Willis      .   296 

The  Gift  that  None  Could  See    Mary  E.   Wilkins     .     .  300 

By  permission  of  the  Lothrop  Publishing  Company. 

Spain's  Last  Armada  ....    Wallace  Rice  ....  304 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

Dora Alfred  Lord  Tennyson   .   309 

From  "Tennyson's  Poems,"  published  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

The  Emir's  Game  of  Chess       .  London  Speaker  . 


Shemus  O'Brien Joseph  S.  Le  Fami 

"  Fidele's  "  Grassy  Tomb  .     .  Henry  Newbolt    . 

By  permission  of  John  Lane. 

A  Tale Robert  Bro7unin^ 

Domine  Quo  Vadis     ....    William  Watson 

By  permission  of  John  Lane. 


323 

3'^5 
329 


PAGB 

George  Eliot  .     .     . 

•  333 

Theodore  Tilton  .     . 

•  337 

Sidney  Lanier      .     , 

•  339 

CONTENTS 


The  Death  of  Moses  .  .  . 
Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away 
The  Revenge  of  Hamish 

From  "  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  by  permission  of   Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 

PATHETIC 
The  Secret  of  Death   ....  Edwin  Arnold     .     .     .  347 
Mother  and  Poet    .     .     .      Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  t^^q 

Michael William  IVordsworth     .  354 

In  the  Children's  Hospital  .     .  Alfred  Lord  Tennyson   .  370 

From  "Tennyson's  Poems,"  published  by  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Father's  Way Eugene  Field .     .     .     .375 

From  "  Second  Book  of  Verse,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons, 
publishers  of  th"?  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

Yes  or  No    ...  ...  Llal  Louther  ....  377 

HUMOROUS 
The  Vase James  Jeffrey  Roche       .  381 

By  permission  of  Richard  G.  Badger  &  Co. 

False  Love  and  True  Logic      .  Laman  B  Ian  chard    .     .382 
What  My  Lover  Said      ...  Llomer  Greoie     .     .     .  383 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

My  Rival Rudyard  Kipling      .     .  385 

"Ma's  Attic" Forrest  Crissey     .     .     .386 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

In  An  Atelier Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich    388 

By  permission  of  the  author  and  Houghton,  MifHin  &  Co. 

A  Sonnet  in  Dialogue      .     .     .  Austin  Dobson     .     .     .391 

Copyright,  1895,  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co. 

The  Modern  Romans      .     .     .   Charles  F.  Johnson  .     .  392 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

The  Usual  Way Anonymous      ....   395 

He  Understood Anna  V.  Culbertson       .  396 


CONTENTS  Xl 

PAGE 

An  Elective  Course     ....   Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich    397 

I'.y  permission  of  the  author  and  Houghton,  MifBin  &  Co. 

Candor Henry  C.  Bunncr     .     .  399 

From   "  Poems  of   H.  C.  Banner,"  by  permission  of  Charles   Scribner's 
Sons. 

A  Pair  of  Fools James  K.  Stephen     .     .  400 

By  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Early  Rising John  G.  Saxe      .     .     .  404 

Used   by  permission   of,  and   by  arrangement  with,  Messrs.  Houghton, 
Mifflin  &  Co. 

What's  the  Difference      .     .     .   O.  F.  Pearre  ....  406 

By  permission  of  Mrs.  O    F.  Pearre. 

The  Blind  Archer       .     .     .     .A.  Conan  Doyle  .     .     .407 

By  permission  of  The  Double i.-y  McClure  Company. 

Blank  Verse  in  Rhyme    .     .         Thomas  Hood      .     .     .  409 

My  Love Anonymous      .     .     .     .410 

They  Went  Fishing    ....  Anonymous      .     .     .     .411 
Burglar  Bill F.  Anstey  .....  412 

HUMOROUS  DIALECT 


When  Malindy  Sings 


From   "  Lyrics  of   Lowly  Life," 
publishers,    Dodd,    Mead 
Mead  &  Co. 

"  Spacially  Jim  "       ..    . 
The  Habitant    .... 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

Katie's  Answer      .     .     . 


.  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  421 

by  permission    of   the  author   and  the 
&    Co.       Copyright,     1896,    by     Dodd, 

.  Bessie  Morgan     .     .     .424 
William  Henry  D?'ummond  425 


The  Power  of  Prayer 


Mandalay  ..... 
The  Rose  of  Ken  mare  . 
Uncle  Gabe's  White  Folks 


Anonymous 


.  Sidney  Lanier 


428 

430 


From  "  Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  by  permission  of   Charles  Scribner's 
Sons. 


.  Rudyard  Kipling       .     .434 
4lfred  Percival  Graves    436 


Thomas  Nelson  Page     .  439 

From  "  Befo'  de  War,"  by  A.  C.  Gordon  and  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  by 
permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 


XII  CONTENTS 

PAGB 

The  Irish  Spinning  Wheel  .     .  Alfred  Percival  Graves    442 
De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne     William  Henry  Druvimond  444 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

Little  Brown  Baby      ....  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar    445 

From  "  Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside,"  by  permission  of  the  Author  and 
the  publishers,  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  Copyright,  1899,  by  Dodd, 
Mead  &  Co. 

Rory  O'More    ......  Samuel  Lover       ,      .     .  447 

Kitty  of  Coleraine      ....   Charles  Dawspn  Shanly  448 

^  ~  '  LYRIC 

Apple  Blossoms William  Wesley  Martin    45 1 

"  If  All  the  Skies "    .     .     .     .  Henry  Van  Dyke      .     .452 
A  Snow-Song Henry  Van  Dyke      .     ,453 

"If  All  the  Skies,"  and"  A  Snow-Song,"  from  "The  Builders  and 
other  Poems,"  are  used  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

Opportunity Echvard  Roivland  Sill  .  454 

Life Edivard  Rowland  Sill  .  454 

"Opportunity"  and  "  Life"  are  used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrange- 
ment with,  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

"  Ex  Ore  Infantium "      .     .     .  Francis  Thowpso7i     .     .  455 

By  permission  of  John  Lane. 

Eldorado Edgar  Allen  Poe       .     .457 

Eulalie Edgar  Allen  Poe       .     .458 

"  Oh    May  I   Join    the    Choir 

Invisible" George  Eliot  .     .     .     .459 

Tears Clarence  JV.   O  us  ley  .     .460 

My  Beacon Emily  H.  Miller      .     .462 

By  permission  of  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

•  Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod     .  Eugene  Field  ....  463 

From  "With  Trumpet  and  Drum,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribner'f 
Sons,  publishers  of  the  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

"Earth  Has  Not  Anything  to 

Show  More  Fair "  .     ,     .     .    Willlafn  Wordsworth     .    464 

■'The   World    Is    Too    Mucli 

With  Us ".,...     .    William.  Wordsworth     ,  465 


CONTENTb  Xin 

I'AGE 

The  Two  Villages       ....  Hose  Terry  Cooke      .     .466 

By  permission  of  George  Gottsberger  Peck,  publisher. 

Things  That  Never  Die  .     .     .   Charles  Dickens  .     .     ,  467 
Japanese  Lullaby Eugene  Field ....  469 

From  "  A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scrib- 
ner's  Sons,  publishers  of  the  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

Home Edward  Roivlami  Sill  .  470 

Truth  at  Last Edward  Roto  land  Sill  .  470 

Spring  Twilight Edward  Rowland  Sill  .  471 

"Home,"'  "Truth  at  Last,"  and  "Spring  Twilight,"  by  Edward  Row- 
land Sill,  are  used  by  permission  of,  and  by  arrangement  with, 
Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 

Annabel  Lee Edgar  Allan  Foe      .     .472 

Self-Dependence Matthew  Arnold .     .     .  474 

From  "  Poems  of  Matthew  Arnold,"  published  by  The  Macmillan 
Company. 

A  Woman's  Face  .     .     .     .     .  James  K.  Stephen     .     .  475 

By  permission  of  The  Macmillan  Company. 

Little  Boy  Blue Eugene  Field  ....  476 

Fiom  "A  Little  Book  of  Western  Verse,"  by  permission  of  Charles 
Scribner  s  Sons,  publishers  of  the  complete  works  of  Eugene  Field. 

Ode  On  a  Grecian'-  Urn  .     .     .  John  Keats      .     .     .     .477 
O  Captain!   My  Captain !    .      .    JValt  Mliitman     .     .     .  479 

From  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  by  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 

The  Fairies William  Allingham  .  .  480 

To  Sleep William  Wordsworth  .  482 

Recessional Riidyard  Kipling       .  .  483 

Her  World Emily  Id.  Miller .     .  .484 

By  permission  of  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

The  Song  My  Paddle  Sings      .  E.  Pauline  Johnson  .     .   485 
Fate Susan  Marr  Spaulding  .   487 

By  permission  of  the  author. 

Prospice Robert  Browning      .     ,488 

The  Rib Ernes,  McGaffey      .     .  489 

By  permission  of  Richard  G.  Badger  &  Co. 

Song  of  the  Chattahoochee .      .   Sidney  Lanier       .     .     .    190 

From  '"Poems  of  Sidney  Lanier,"  by  permission  of  Charles  Scribne''r 
Sons,  publishers. 


XIV  CONTENTS 


THE   DRAMA 

PAGE 

The  Falcon Alfred  Tennyson  .     .      .  493 

From  "  Tennyson's  Poems,"  published  by  The  Macmillan     ompany. 

Scene  from  Richelieu       .     .     .  Edward  Lord  Lytton     .  512 

Armgart George  Eliot  .     .     .     .519 

Scene  from  Rip  Van  Winkle ,  544 

By  permission  of  Mr.  Joseph  Jefferson. 


Suggestions  for  Cutting 551 

Index  of  Authors 555 

Index  of  Titles r     •  557 

Index  of  First  Lines  of  Poetry  ...,->  559 


INTRODUCTION 

During  the  past  few  years  many  prominent  edu- 
cators have  striven  zealously  to  impress  upon  the 
educational  world  the  importance  of  reading  aloud  as 
an  aid  to  literary  study.  Among  the  leaders  in  this 
movement  stands  Professor  Corson,  of  Cornell  Uni- 
versity, who  states  that  he  desires  no  better  test  of  a 
student's  grasp  of  any  piece  of  literature  than  the 
vocal  rendering  of  it.  Bearing  in  mind  that  lack  of 
concentration,  nervousness,  or  other  forms  of  mental 
awkwardness  may  interfere  with  adequate  rendition, 
we  may  safely  assert  that,  for  all  practical  purposes, 
the  best  test  that  can  be  applied  to  determine  appre- 
ciation of  the  thought  and  spirit  of  a  piece  of  literature 
is  that  of  vocal  expression.  To  understand  the  mental 
content  of  a  selection  is  one  thing;  to  live  the  selec- 
tion is  another;  and  until  we  live  literature  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  it  has  become  our  own.  How,  then,  can 
reading  aloud  be  made  to  contribute  to  the  acquisition 
of  the  thought  and  spirit  of  literature? 

It  is  not  difficult  to  show  that,  in  the  average  reci- 
tation room,  too  little  attention  is  paid  to  the  careful 
consideration  of  the  text.  The  pupil  studies  the 
definition  of  every  word,  and  yet  fails  to  grasp  the 
inner  meaning  of  phrase  and  clause.  The  finer  shades 
of  thought  and  feeling  are  frequently  overlooked.    The 

XT 


XVI  INTRODUCTION 

transitions  in  thought  and  emotion  are  scarcely  noticed. 
We  are  content  to  get  a  general,  vague  idea  of  the 
spirit  of  the  author,  and,  in  the  stress  of  other  studies, 
are  prone  to  overlook  the  details  in  literary  study, 
without  a  knowledge  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  form 
sound  literary  judgments.  Now,  it  is  claimed  for 
oral  reading,  first,  that  it  compels  the  attention  of  the 
student  to  every  detail;  compels  him,  before  he  can 
read  a  passage,  to  determine  not  only  the  thought, 
but  the  emotion  with  which  every  poetic  line  is  in- 
stinct. Second,  it  gives  the  teacher,  in  undeniable 
form,  just  the  impression  that  a  pupil  has  derived 
from  a  reading  of  the  text,  and,  I  might  add,  it  does 
this  better  than  could  be  done  by  means  of  a  written 
examination.  Third,  it  enables  the  student,  by  com- 
pelling him  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  author,  to 
experience,  to  some  extent,  emotions  with  which 
otherwise  he  might  never  come  in  contact.  Fourth, 
by  compelling  the  student  to  go  slowly — I  mean 
slowly  as  compared  with  silent  reading — it  develops 
his  power  of  attention,  and  m  this  wise  opens  the 
avenues  througli  which  the  ethical  and  esthetical  fac- 
ulties are  reached. 

Let  us  demonstrate  what  is  meant  by  saying  that 
oral  reading  compels  the  attention  of  the  student  to 
every  detail.  Knowing  that  the  teacher  will  hold  him 
responsible  for  the  reading  of  the  text,  the  student 
can  no  longer  content  himself  with  a  hasty  and  gen- 
eral perusal.  He  must  make  each  line,  each  word, 
live.  He  knows  that  his  reading  will  betray  at  every 
step  faulty  analysis  or  slipshod  interpretation.  So  his 
preparation  now  becomes  a  definite  study,  as  definite 


INTRODUCTION  Xvii 

as  mathematics,  linguistics,  science.  He  must  weigh, 
balance,  argue;  he  must  use  his  knowledge  of  nature 
and  art;  he  must  reason.  In  a  word,  every  faculty 
of  the  mind  must  be  brought  to  bear  on  his  analysis. 
Even  this  process,  one  may  admit,  may  not  reveal  the 
innermost  thought  of  Goethe's  "  Faust  "  or  Shake- 
speare's "  Hamlet."  But  no  other  way  will !  Nor  can 
it  be  denied  that  many  teachers  pursue  this  detailed 
method,  without  regard  to  oral  reading.  But  does  it 
not  seem  plausible  that  when  the  pupil  has  not  only 
to  describe  the  thought,  but  to  render  it;  not  only  to 
describe  the  emotion,  but  to  feel  it,  he  must  perforce 
be  compelled  to  a  deeper  and  fuller  analysis?  Let  us 
illustrate  our  point  by  two  brief  examples.  The  first 
is  found  in  Tennyson's  "  Sleeping  Beauty."  The  poet 
has  been  telling  Lady  Flora  the  old  story  of  "  The 
Sleeping  Beauty."     Then  follows: 

MORAL. 


So,  Lady   Flora,  take  my  lay, 

And  if  you  find  no  moral  there, 
Go,  look  in  any   glass  and   say, 

What  moral  is  in  being  fair. 
Oh,  to  what  uses  shall  we  put 

The   wildweed-flower   that    simply  blows? 
And  is  there  any  moral  shut 

Within  the  bosom  of  the  rose? 


II. 


But   any    man  that   walks  the   mead, 
In  bud,  or  blade,  or  bloom,  may  find, 

According  as   his   humors  lead, 
A  meaning   suited  to   his  mind. 


jfviii  INTRODUCTION 

And  liberal  applications  lie 

In  Art  like   Nature,  dearest  friend; 

So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 

Should   hook   it  to   some   useful   end. 

It  is  not  difficult  to  get  the  author's  intention. 
There  is  a  large  class  of  people  who  are  forever  poring 
over  literature,  determined  to  find  in  every  poem  some 
profound  symbolism,  some  hidden  meaning  which 
they  are  positive  lies  underneath  the  surface.  They 
go  sometimes  so  far  as  to  insist  that  this  symbolism 
is  present  whether  the  author  intended  it  to  be  there 
or  not,  and  are  not  content  unless  they  discover  some 
moralizing  hid  "  within  the  bosom  of  the  rose."  To 
these  Tennyson  says :  Are  you  not  content  to  dwell 
in  the  presence  of  the  beautiful?  Does  not  that  which 
is  beautiful  justify  itself?  You  do  not  seek  continually 
for  a  moral  in  the  glories  of  sunset,  or  among  the 
ever-changing  hues  of  the  ocean.  True,  these  may 
stir  us  deeply,  and  call  up  yearnings  and  aspirations 
from  the  depths  of  our  being,  but  these  beauties  are 
not  there  primarily  to  teach  sermons.  So  in  art.  As 
nature  affects  each  of  us  according  to  his  experience, 
culture,  and  mood,  so  does  art,  and 

So  'twere  to  cramp  its  use,  if  I 
Should  hook   it  to  some  useful   end. 

Hook  it !  There  is  the  keynote  of  the  "  Moral." 
The  associations  of  "  hook  "  are  most  prosaic.  Its 
ivery  sound  is  flat  and  commonplace.  As  far  as  that 
word,  in  associations  and  sound,  is  removed  from  the 
realm  of  poetrv.  so  far  are  they  from  possessing  the 
true  spirit  of  literature  who  constantly  strive  to  find 
a  practical  application  in  every  poem;  and  "  hook  it  " 


INTRODUCTION  XIX 

becomes  a  poetic  cudgel  with  which  to  belabor  them. 
The  manner  in  which  a  student  would  render  that 
phrase  would  clearly  reveal  his  understanding  of  the 
"  Moral." 

A  second  illustration  is  from  the  familiar  soliloquy 
of  Brutus,  in  "  Julius  Caesar,"  Act  II.,  Scene  i : 


It  must  be  by  his  death:    and,  for  my  part, 

I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  him. 

But  for  the  general.     He  would  be  crowned: 

How  that  might  change  his  nature,  there's  the  question; 

It  is  the  bright  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder. 

And  that  craves  wary  walking.     Crown  him? — that; 

And  then,   I  grant,   we  put   a  sting  in  him. 

That  at  his  will  he   may  do  danger  with. 

The  abuse  of  greatness  is,  when  it  disjoins 

Remorse  from  power:    and,  to  speak  truth  of  Caesar, 

I  have  not  known  when  his  affections  swayed 

More  than  his  reason.     But  'tis  a  common  proof 

That  lowliness  is  young  ambition's  ladder. 

Whereto  the   climber-upward   turns  his   face; 

But  when  he  once  attains  the  utmost  round, 

He  then  unto  the  ladder  turns  his  back. 

Looks  in  the  clouds,  scorning  the  base  degrees 

By  which  he  did  ascend.     So  Caesar  may: 

Then,  lest  he  may,  prevent.     And,  since  the  quarrel 

Will  bear  no  color  for  the  thing  he  is. 

Fashion  it  thus:    that  what  he  is,  augmented, 

Would  run  to  these  and  these  extremities: 

And  therefore  think  him  as  a  serpent's  egg. 

Which,  hatched,  would  as  his  kind  grow  mischievous; 

And  kill  him  in  the  shell. 


There  are  many  students  who  have  made  a  study  of 
"  Julius  Caesar  "  who  yet  fail  to  remark  that  in  this 
speech  Brutus  is  made  to  reveal  all  unconsciously  the 
weakness  of  his  position.  Shakespeare  clearly  show^s 
us  that  Brutus  would  kill  his  dearest  friend,  not  for 
what  he  is,  but  for  what  he  might  be :  an  argument 


XX  INTRODUCTION 

that  can  hardly  be  justified  before  the  bar  of  ethics. 
Let  us  examine  the  passage  more  nearly. 

Brutus  has  been  debating  carefully  the  relation  of 
Caesar  to  Roman  liberty.  Much  as  he  loves  his  friend, 
and  doing  violence  to  all  his  conceptions  of  friend- 
ship, Brutus  can  yet  find  no  solution  of  the  problem 
except  in  the  death  of  Caesar.  But  how  can  the  assas- 
sination of  the  people's  idol  be  explained  to  the  popu- 
lace? Can  the  conspirators  point  to  a  single  overt  act 
on  the  part  of  Csesar  that  would  be  indisputable  evi- 
dence of  his  determination  to  subvert  the  functions  of 
government  for  his  own  ends?  Not  one.  That  Bru- 
tus recognizes  this  fact  is  evident  in  "  the  quarrel  will 
bear  no  color  for  the  thing  he  is."  In  other  words, 
the  assassination  of  Csesar  can  not  be  justified  by  point- 
ing to  any  act  of  his  that  can  be  construed  into  an 
attempt  to  extend  his  powers  beyond  the  limits  im- 
posed by  law.  And  since,  then,  we  can  not  justify 
our  course  in  this  way,  we  must  excuse  it  by  showing 
what  he  might  be.  That  is,  "  What  he  is,  plus  what 
he  niiglit  be  should  he  be  crowned,  would  lead  him  to 
this  or  that  extremity;  and  we  must  therefore  kill  him 
before  his  power  becomes  so  great  that  it  can  not  be 
restrained."  The  sentence  that  reveals  this  reason- 
ing is : 

And,  since  the  quarrel 
Will   bear  no  color  for  the  thing  he  is, 
Fashion  it  thus:    that   what  he  is,   augmented, 
Would   run  to  these  and  these   extremities: 

The  emphasis  suggested  reveals  clearly  and  beyond 
the  possibility  of  misunderstanding  the  entire  rationale 
of  the  attitude  of  Brutus.     And  if  a  student  read  the 


INTRODUCTION  XX) 

sentence  in  the  manner  indicated,  no  further  test  to 
discover  his  grasp  of  the  meaning  need  be  appHed. 

The  ilhistrations  that  have  been  given  to  show  how 
the  preparation  for  oral  expression  necessitates  a  care- 
ful and  minute  examination  of  the  text,  serve  also  to 
substantiate  our  second  claim,  that  reading  aloud  may 
be  made  a  test  of  the  student's  grasp  of  the  meaning. 
But  to  grasp  the  meaning  includes  not  only  the  appre- 
hension of  sense  relations,  but  also  apprehension  of  the 
feeling.  We  may  illustrate  by  a  passage  from  "  Mac- 
beth," Act  I.,  Scene  5: 

Lady  Macbeth.     .     .     .     look  like  the   innocent  flower, 
But  be  the   serpent  under't.     He  that's  coming,  etc. 

There  are  many  who  have  no  other  idea  of  the  func- 
tion of  elision  than  as  a  means  of  reducing  the  number 
of  syllables  in  a  given  line.  I  have  frequently  asked 
my  classes  to  explain  why  a  certain  letter  was  elided, 
and  the  answ^er  has  almost  invariably  been,  to  pre- 
serve the  normal  structure  of  the  line :  if  the  poet  had 
not  dropped  the  letter  the  line  would  have  been  a 
syllable  too  long.  Granting  that  this  explanation  ap- 
plies in  many  cases — as  in  the  case  of  "  'twas,"  "  o'er," 
"  e'er,"  "  ev'n  " — it  may  be  safely  asserted  that  in  most 
other  cases  it  is  no  explanation  at  all.  This  is  not  the 
place  to  develop  this  interesting  phase  of  literary  inter- 
pretation, but  perhaps  an  examination  of  the  preced- 
ing passage  from  "  Macbeth  "  may  serve  to  throw 
some  light  upon  the  subject. 

In  the  first  place,  Shakespeare's  works  abound  in 
lines  containing  nine,  and  eleven,  and  even  twelve  syl- 
lables.    This   shows  that  he   did   not   consider  it  an 


XXll  INTRODUCTION 

artistic  crime  to  deviate  from  the  conventional  iambic 
pentameter  line.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  very  line 
under  discussion,  even  with  the  elision  "  under't,"  has 
still  eleven  syllables.  Why  not  just  as  well  make  it 
twelve,  as  in  the  line,  Scene  7, 

It  were   done  quickly:    if  the  assassination? 

Or,  why  not  rearrange  or  rewrite  the  line  so  as  to 
make  it  normal?  This  would  have  been  an  easy  task 
for  Shakespeare.  But  no.  The  i  elided  itself.  It 
dropped  out  through  the  intensity  of  Lady  Macbeth's 
feeling.  There  is  a  determination,  a  grip,  in  "  under't  " 
that  would  disappear  in  "  under  it."  In  writing,  it 
is  difficult  to  express  what  is  meant,  but  a  reading  of 
the  passage  will  render  it  clear  to  any  who  have  the 
slightest  poetic  sensibility.  "  Under  it  "  is  flat,  pro- 
saic, commonplace,  impossible;  "  under't  "  is  intense, 
concentrated  passion.  Every  student  will  tell  us  that 
"  under't  "  stands  for  "  under  it."  That  is  the  bare 
thought.  When  he  grasps  the  feeling  that  uncon- 
sciously eliminated  the  1,  his  voice  will  manifest  that 
feeling  better  than  any  written  examination  can 
ever  do. 

We  pass  now  to  our  third  consideration,  i.e.,  that 
the  reading  aloud  of  the  text  develops  emotional 
power.  If  it  is  held  that  there  is  no  value  in  careful 
development  of  emotional  power,  I  have  not  sufficient 
time  in  this  place  to  offer  arguments  to  the  contrary. 
But  I  do  not  believe  there  are  very  many  who  do  hold 
thus,  in  spite  of  Plato's  dictum  that  cultivation  of  the 
emotions  tends  to  w^eaken  self-control.  Granting, 
then,  that  the  possession  of  sympathy  with  as  many 


INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

emotions  as  possible  is  a  desideratum,  it  is  proper  to 
inquire  how  this  is  to  be  brought  about  through  oral 
expression.  Oral  reading  compels  the  attention  to 
details.  Thus,  the  figures,  scenes,  incidents  of  a  selec- 
tion are  deeply  impressed  upon  the  mind,  and  as  a 
result  the  imagination  is  stimulated.  This  is  the  first 
requisite.  Stimulation  of  imagination  vitalizes,  makes 
vivid  the  picture.  I  mean  more.  I  mean  seeing  the 
picture,  and  dwelling  upon  it,  holding  it  by  an  effort 
of  the  cC'///,  so  that  there  rush  into  the  plane  of  con- 
sciousness, out  cf  the  unfathomable  and  inexplicable 
depths  of  the  subconsciousness,  ideas,  pictures,  expe- 
riences of  the  past;  in  a  word,  memories.  These  com- 
bine with  the  picture  and  the  result  is  imagination  and 
emotion. 

The  action  of  the  subtle  law  of  the  association  of 
ideas  must  never  be  lost  sight  of  in  connection  with 
the  development  of  imagination,  and,  through  this, 
the  development  of  emotion.  Association  of  ideas  is 
a  spontaneous  activity  of  mind.  All  we  need  do  is 
to  hold  a  picture  before  the  mind  and  the  brain  will  do 
the  rest.  The  wider  our  range  of  experience  and 
culture  the  greater  the  number  of  potential  associative 
ideas.  If.  therefore,  we  ponder  carefully  each  detail 
of  a  selection,  as  we  are  compelled  to  do  in  prepar- 
ing for  oral  recitation;  if  we  do  as  Wordsworth  tells 
us  in  "  Daffodils."  "  gaze — and  gaze,"  the  law  of  asso- 
ciation of  ideas  will  bring  to  consciousness  past  expe- 
riences that  will  so  stimulate  the  imagination  that  the 
emotions  Avill  be  aroused.  As  a  result,  we  shall  feci 
with  the  poet  the  joys  of  nature,  the  anguish  of  despair, 
or  the  uplifting  that  comes  from  a  sympathetic  con- 


xxiv  INTRODUCTION 

templation  of  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true. 
Surely  such  experiences  are  worth  having,  and  if  worth 
having,  worth  striving  for.  Who  can  study  and  read 
aloud  with  feeling  the  stately,  dignified  speech  of 
Othello  to  the  Senate  without  becoming  more  digni- 
fied? Who  can  represent  the  grandeur  of  soul,  the 
unswerving  honesty  of  Brutus  in  the  garden  scene, 
without  adding  somewhat  to  his  own  moral  stature? 
We  cannot  by  thinking  add  to  our  physical  height,  but 
we  can  and  do  grow  spiritually  only  by  first  tJiinking 
and  then  doing  the  right.  Good  literature  affords  the 
stimulus  to  this  thinking,  and  good  reading  means 
that  the  student  is,  for  a  moment  at  least,  in  the  higher 
realm  of  emotion. 

Emotion  is  deprecated  nowadays.  From  the  pri- 
mary grade  to  the  university  Impression  seems  to  be 
the  watchword,  and  good  expression  is  entirely  dis- 
regarded. The  result  is  seen  and  felt  in  the  pulpit,  at 
the  bar,  in  the  schoolroom.  The  child  comes  to  us  full 
of  expression,  emotion,  imagination.  He  leaves  the 
high  school  and  university,  "  cold  and  moveless  as  a 
stone."  He  is  now  a  practical  man.  But  the  laws 
of  nature  can  not  be  violated  with  impunity.  Atrophy 
has  set  in,  the  capacity  to  feel  has  disappeared,  and  the 
taste  for  good  literature  and  good  music,  painting, 
and  sculpture — children  of  the  emotions — is  dead. 

I  desire  to  be  perfectly  fair  in  this  matter.  I  do  not 
wish  to  defeat  my  purpose  by  claiming  too  much. 
The  highly  developed  emotional  capacity  is  not  an 
unmixed  good.  Tlie  more  emotional  a  man  is,  the 
more  danger  of  his  abuse  of  the  emotions.  We  have 
only  to  cite  the  French  Revolution  as  an  example  of 


INTRODUCTION  XXV 

the  emotions  run  to  weed.  The  possession  of  any 
power  is  never  inseparable  h'om  the  possibihty  of  its 
misuse.  But  is  that  possibihty  a  reason  why  we 
should  not  develop  these  great  powers?  Because 
the  emotions  of  the  Jacobins  found  vent  in  massacre 
and  the  Reign  of  Terror,  is  that  any  reason  for  stem- 
ming the  onward  flow  of  democratic  principles  which 
take  their  rise  in  the  emotion  of  patriotism  and  uni- 
versal brotherhood?  I  would,  then,  suggest  a  simple 
and  feasible  plan  for  which  I  am  thankful  to  acknowl- 
edge my  indebtedness  to  Professor  James,  the  eminent 
psychologist  of  Harvard.  Never  awaken  an  emotion 
unless  at  the  same  time  you  strive  to  open  a  channel 
through  which  the  emotion  may  pass  into  the  realm  of 
elevated  action.  If  your  class  are  reading  the  inspir- 
ingf  creed  of  the  Knights  of  the  Round  Table,  which 
was  to  serve  "  as  model  for  the  mighty  world,"  the 
creed  set  forth  by  Tennyson  in  "  Guinevere," 

To  reverence  the  King,  as  if  he  were 

Their  conscience,   and  their  conscience  as  their  King, 

To   break  the   heathen   and  uphold  the   Christ, 

To  ride   abroad  redressing  human   wrongs, 

To  speak  no  slander,  no,   nor  listen  to  it. 

To  honor  his  own  word  as  it  his  God's, 

To  lead  sweet  lives  in  purest  chastity. 

To  love  one  maiden  only,  cleave  to  her, 

To  worship  her  by  years  of  noble  deeds, 

Until   they   won   her; 

I  repeat,  if  we  are  studying  such  ideals  with  our  class, 
we  have  failed  in  the  highest  duty  of  a  teacher  if  we 
have  not  given  them  somewhat  of  a  similar  ideal  oi 
life,  and,  furthermore,  having  given  them  the  ideal,  it 
we  have  not  given  them,  by  means  of  some  sugges- 


XXVI  INTRODUCTION 

tion,  the  opportunity  for  realizing  the  ideal.  A  col- 
lege man  can  carry  his  ideal  into  immediate  practice 
by  doffing  his  hat  to  a  lady  on  the  street,  when  he  has 
not  been  accustomed  to  do  it;  by  taking  off  his  hat 
in  an  elevator;  by  rising  when  a  lady  enters  the  draw- 
ing-room; by  daring  to  stand  up  for  the  right,  even 
though  his  own  football  or  baseball  team  may  by  such 
means  be  worsted;  daring  to  speak  out  boldly  against 
so  many  of  the  smaller  vices  of  school  and  college  life. 
In  the  life  of  the  young  girl  there  is  generally  a  higher 
ideal  than  in  that  of  the  man;  but  a  teacher  can  find 
a  vent  for  the  emotion  of  the  girl,  which  shall  do  for 
her  by  similar  means  what  I  have  suggested  should 
be  done  for  the  boys.  Furthermore,  if  there  is  an 
emotion  excited  in  our  pupils  through  music  or  any 
other  of  the  arts,  through  a  patriotic  lecture,  a  talk  on 
ethics  or  sociology,  it  matters  not  what,  we  fail  of  our 
duty  if  we  do  not  take  an  occasion  at  once  to  guide 
that  emotion  so  that  it  may  express  itself  in  elevated 
action. 

Lastly,  I  hold  that  reading  aloud  makes  the  litera- 
ture thus  read  more  the  possession  of  the  student.  It 
makes  it  more  his  own.  After  what  I  have  already 
said,  very  little  argument  should  be  necessary  to  sub- 
stantiate this  claim.  It  is  a  corollary,  rather  than  a  new 
proposition.  No  one  will  deny  that  when  a  student 
has  searched  a  piece  of  literature  for  its  ethical  and  es- 
thetical  beauties,  he  is  forever  nearer  to  the  spirit  of  the 
literature.  So  long  has  he  lived  with  the  selection  and 
with  its  underlying  thought  and  passion,  with  its 
scenes  and  characters,  that  they  have  become  his  own 
foster  children.     He  loves  them  and  he  loves  the  lit- 


INTRODUCTION  XXVl] 

erature  which  embodies  them.  And  until  we  have 
brought  our  students  into  this  relation,  the  relation  of 
a  lover  rather  than  that  of  a  servant  or  hireling  of  the 
Muse,  we  have  not  truly  taught  them  how  to  study 
and  appreciate  literature. 

That  we  need  some  training  of  this  kind  goes  with- 
out saying.  How  many  of  those  who  have  studied 
literature  in  schools  or  colleges,  because  it  was  part 
of  the  prescribed  work,  ever  go  to  it  in  after  life  as  a 
means  of  culture,  training,  or  pleasure?  Alas!  very, 
very  few.  I  believe  that  there  is  no  better  way  to  in- 
culcate the  love  of  literature  than  by  having  the  pupils 
read  it  aloud.  We  talk  glibly  of  the  sonorous  rhythm 
of  Milton's  verse,  but  can  not  quote  a  line.  We  talk 
of  the  fertile  imagination  and  sublime  passion  of  Shake- 
speare, but  how  many  of  us  ever  pick  him  up  for  an 
hour's  reading?  We  talk  of  the  tenderness,  of  the 
homeliness  of  the  lyrics  of  Burns,  but  never  read  them. 
The  dust-covered  volumes  lie  upon  our  shelves,  or  for 
an  ornament  on  the  drawing-room  table;  while,  on 
the  other  hand,  we  are  well  nigh  shamed  when  com- 
pelled to  confess  we  have  not  read  the  latest  popular 
novel. 


PROSE 

DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

PATHETIC 

HUMOROUS 

HUMOROUS    DIALECT 


DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

■'THERE  WERE  NINETY  AND  NINE"* 

RICHARD     HARDING     DAVIS 

Young  Harringford,  or  tlie  "  Goodwood  Plunger," 
as  he  was  perhaps  better  known  at  that  time,  had  come 
to  Monte  Carlo  in  a  very  different  spirit  and  in  a  very 
different  state  of  mind  from  any  in  which  he  had  ever 
visited  the  place  before.  He  had  come  there  for  the 
same  reason  that  a  wounded  Kon,  or  a  poisoned  rat, 
for  that  matter,  crawls  away  into  a  corner,  that  it  may 
be  alone  when  it  dies.  He  stood  leaning  against  one 
of  the  pillars  of  the  Casiino  with  his  back  to  the  moon- 
light, and  with  his  eyes  blinking  painfully  at  the  flam- 
ing lamps  above  the  green  tables  inside.  He  knew 
they  would  be  put  out  very  soon;  and  as  he  had 
something  to  do  cnen,  he  reg-arded  them  fixedly  with 
painful  earnestness,  as  a  man  who  is  condemned  to 
die  at  sunrise  watches  through  his  barred  windows  for 
the  first  gray  light  of  the  morning. 

That  queer,  numb  feeling  in  his  head  and  the  sharp 
line  of  pain  between  his  eyebrows  which  had  been 
growing  worse  for  the  last  three  weeks,  was  troubling 
him  more  terribly  than  ever  before,  and  his  nerves  had 
thrown  off  all  control  and  rioted  at  the  base  of  hi.«^ 

*  See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  551. 


4  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

head  and  at  his  wrists,  and  jerked  and  twitched  as 
though,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  they  were  striving  to  pull 
the  tired  body  into  pieces  and  to  set  themselves  free. 
He  was  wondering  whether  if  he  should  take  his  hand 
from  his  pocket  and  touch  his  head  he  would  find  that 
it  had  grown  longer,  and  had  turned  into  a  soft,  spongy 
mass  which  would  give  beneath  his  fingers.  He  con- 
sidered this  for  some  time,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to 
half  withdraw  one  hand,  but  thought  better  of  it  and 
shoved  it  back  again  as  he  considered  how  much  less 
terrible  it  was  to  remain  in  doubt  than  to  find  that 
this  phenomenon  had  actually  taken  place. 

The  pity  of  the  whole  situation  was,  that  the  boy 
was  only  a  boy  with  all  his  man's  miserable  knowledge 
of  the  world,  and  the  reason  of  it  all  was,  that  he 
had  entirely  too  much  heart  and  not  enough  money 
to  make  an  unsuccessful  gambler.  If  he  had  only  been 
able  to  lose  his  conscience  instead  of  his  money,  or 
even  if  he  had  kept  his  conscience  and  won,  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  would  have  been  waiting  for  the  lights 
to  go  out  at  Monte  Carlo.  But  he  had  not  only  lost 
all  of  his  money  and  more  besides,  which  he  could 
never  make  up,  but  he  had  lost  other  things  which 
meant  much  more  to  him  now  than  money,  and  which 
could  not  be  made  up  or  paid  back  at  even  usurious 
interest.  He  had  not  only  lost  the  right  to  sit  at  his 
father's  table,  but  the  right  to  think  of  the  girl  whose 
place  in  Surrey  ran  next  to  that  of  his  own  people, 
and  whose  lighted  window  in  the  north  wing  he  had 
watched  on  those  many  dreary  nights  when  she  had 
been  ill,  from  his  own  terrace  across  the  trees  in  the 
park.     And  all  he  had  gained  was  the  notoriety  that 


"  THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND   NINE  "  5 

made  him  a  byword  with  decent  people,  and  the 
hero  of  the  race-tracks  and  the  music-halls.  He  was 
no  longer  "  Young  Harringford,  the  eldest  son  of 
the  Harringfords  of  Surrey,"  but  the  "  Goodwood 
Plunger."  to  whom  Fortune  had  made  desperate  love 
and  had  then  jilted,  and  mocked,  and  overthrown. 

As  he  looked  back  at  it  now  and  remembered  him- 
self as  he  was  then,  it  seemed  as  though  he  was  con- 
sidering an  entirely  distinct  and  separate  personage — 
a  boy  of  whom  he  liked  to  think,  who  had  had  strong, 
healthy  ambitions  and  gentle  tastes.  He  review^ed  it 
passionlessly  as  he  stood  staring  at  the  Hghts  inside 
the  Casino,  as  clearly  as  he  was  capable  of  doing  in 
his  present  state  and  with  miserable  interest.  How  he 
had  laughed  when  young  Norton  told  him  in  boyish 
confidence  that  there  was  a  horse  named  Siren  in  his 
father's  stables  which  w^ould  win  the  Goodwood  Cup; 
hoW',  having  gone  down  to  see  Norton's  people  w'hen 
the  long  vacation  began,  he  had  seen  Siren  daily,  and 
had  talked  of  her  until  two  every  morning  in  the  smok- 
ing-room, and  had  then  stayed  up  two  hours  later  to 
watch  her  take  her  trial  spin  over  the  downs.  He 
remembered  how'  they  used  to  stamp  back  over  the 
long  grass  wet  with  dew,  comparing  watches  and  talk- 
ing of  the  time  in  whispers,  and  said  good-night  as 
the  sun  broke  over  the  trees  in  the  park.  And  then 
just  at  this  time  of  all  others,  when  the  horse  was  the 
only  interest  of  those  around  him,  from  Lord  Norton 
and  his  whole  household  down  to  the  youngest  stable- 
boy  and  oldest  gafTer  in  the  village,  he  had  come  into 
his  money. 

And    then    began   the    then    and    still    inexplicable 


6  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

plunge  into  gambling,  and  the  wagering  of  greater 
sums  than  the  owner  of  Siren  dared  to  risk  himself, 
the  secret  backing  of  the  horse  through  commissioners 
all  over  England,  until  the  boy  by  his  single  fortune 
had  brought  the  odds  against  her  from  60  to  i  down 
to  6  to  I.     He  recalled,  with  a  thrill  that  seemed  to 
settle  his  nerves  for  the  moment,  the  little  black  specks 
at  the  starting-post  and  the  larger  specks  as  the  horses 
turned  the  first  corner.    The  rest  of  the  people  on  the 
coach  were  making  a  great  deal  of  noise,  he  remem- 
bered, but  he,  who  had  more  to  lose  than  any  one  or 
all  of  them  together,  had  stood  quite  still  with  his 
feet  on  the  wheel  and  his  back  against  the  box-seat, 
and  with  his  hands  sunk  into  his  pockets  and  the  nails 
cutting  through  his  gloves.     The  specks  grew  into 
horses  with  bits  of  color  on  them,  and  then  the  deep 
muttering  roar  of  the  crowd  merged  into  one  great 
shout,  and  swelled  and  grew  into  sharper,  quicker,  im- 
j^atient  cries,  as  the  horses  turned  into  the  stretch  with 
only  their  heads  showing  toward  the  goal.     Some  of 
the  people  were  shouting  "  Firefly!  "  and  others  were 
calling  on  "  Vixen  !  "  and  others,  who  had  their  glasses 
up,  cried  "  Trouble  leads !  "  but  he  only  waited  until 
he  could  distinguish  the  Norton  colors,  with  his  lips 
pressed  tightly  together.     Then  they  came  so  close 
that  their  hoofs  echoed  as  loudly  as  when  horses  gal- 
lop over  a  bridge,  and  from  among  the  leaders  Siren's 
beautiful  head  and  shoulders  showed  like  sealskin  in 
the  sun,  and  the  boy  on  her  back  leaned  forward  and 
touched  her  gently  with  his  hand,  as  they  had  so  often 
seen  him  do  on  the  downs,  and  Siren,  as  though  he 
had  touched  a  spring,  leaped  forward  with  her  head 


••  THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND    NINE  7 

shooting  back  and  out,  like  a  piston-rod  that  has 
broken  loose  from  its  fastening  and  beats  the  air,  while 
the  jockey  sat  motionless,  with  his  right  arm  hanging 
at  his  side  as  limply  as  though  it  were  broken,  and 
with  his  left  moving  forward  and  back  in  time  with  the 
desperate  strokes  of  the  horse's  head. 

"  Siren  wins !  "  cried  Lord  Norton,  with  a  grim  smile, 
and  "  Siren !  "  the  mob  shouted  back  with  wonder 
and  angry  disappointment,  and  "  Siren !  "  the  hills 
echoed  from  far  across  the  course.  Young  Harring- 
ford  felt  as  if  he  had  suddenly  been  lifted  into  heaven 
after  three  months  of  purgatory,  and  smiled  uncer- 
tainly at  the  excited  people  on  the  coach  about  him. 
It  made  him  smile  even  now  when  he  recalled  young 
Norton's  flushed  face  and  the  awe  and  reproach  in 
his  voice  when  he  climbed  up  and  whispered,  "  Why, 
Cecil,  they  say  in  the  ring  you've  won  a  fortune,  and 
you  never  told  us."  And  how  Grififith,  the  biggest 
of  the  book-makers,  with  the  rest  of  them  at  his  back, 
came  up  to  him  and  touched  his  hat  resentfully,  and 
said,  "  You'll  have  to  give  us  time,  sir;  I'm  very  hard 
hit  ";  and  how  the  crowd  stood  about  him  and  looked 
at  him  curiously,  and  the  Certain  Royal  Personage 
turned  and  said,  "  Who — not  that  boy,  surely? " 
Then  how,  on  the  day  following,  the  papers  told  of 
the  young  gentleman  who  of  all  others  had  won  a 
fortune,  thousands  and  thousands  of  pounds  they  said, 
getting  back  sixty  for  every  one  he  had  ventured;  and 
pictured  him  in  baby  clothes  with  the  cup  in  his  arms, 
or  in  an  Eton  jacket;  and  how  all  of  them  spoke  of 
him  slightingly,  or  admiringly,  as  the  "  Goodwood 
Plunger." 


8  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

He  did  not  care  to  go  on  after  that;  to  recall  the 
mortification  of  his  father,  whose  pride  was  hurt  and 
whose  hopes  were  dashed  by  this  sudden,  mad  freak 
of  fortune,  nor  how  he  railed  at  and  provoked  him 
until  the  boy  rebelled  and  went  back  to  the  courses, 
where  he  was  a  celebrity  and  a  king. 

The  rest  is  a  very  common  story.  Fortune  and 
greater  fortune  at  first;  days  in  which  he  could  not 
lose,  days  in  which  he  drove  back  to  the  crowded  inns 
choked  with  dust,  sunburnt  and  fagged  with  excite- 
ment, to  a  riotous  supper  and  baccarat,  and  afterward 
went  to  sleep  only  to  see  cards  and  horses  and  moving 
crowds  and  clouds  of  dust;  days  spent  in  a  short  covert 
coat,  with  a  field-glass  over  his  shoulder  and  with  a 
pasteboard  ticket  dangling  from  his  buttonhole;  and 
then  came  the  change  that  brought  conscience  up 
again,  and  the  visits  to  the  Jews,  and  the  slights  of 
the  men  who  had  never  been  his  friends,  but  whom 
he  had  thought  had  at  least  liked  him  for  himself,  even 
if  he  did  not  like  them;  and  then  debts,  and  more 
debts,  and  the  borrowing  of  money  to  pay  here  and 
there,  and  threats  of  executions;  and,  with  it  all,  the 
longing  for  the  fields  and  trout  springs  of  Surrey  and 
the  walk  across  the  park  to  where  she  lived.  This  grew 
so  strong  that  he  wrote  to  his  father,  and  was  told 
briefly  that  he  who  was  to  have  kept  up  the  family 
name  had  dragged  it  into  the  dust  of  the  race-courses, 
and  had  changed  it  at  his  own  wish  to  that  of  the  Boy 
Plunger  —  and  that  the  breach  was  irreconcilable. 

Then  this  queer  feeling  came  on,  and  he  wondered 
why  he  could  not  eat,  and  why  he  shivered  even  when 
the  room  was  warm  or  the  sun  shining-,  and  the  fear 


"THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND   NINE'  Q 

came  upon  him  that  with  all  this  trouble  and  disgrace 
his  head  might  give  way,  and  then  that  it  had  given 
way.  This  came  to  him  at  all  times,  and  lately  more 
frequently  and  with  a  fresher,  more  cruel  thrill  of  ter- 
ror, and  he  began  to  watch  himself  and  note  how  he 
spoke,  and  to  repeat  over  what  he  had  said  to  see 
if  it  were  sensible,  and  to  question  himself  as  to  why 
he  laughed,  and  at  what.  It  was  not  a  question  of 
whether  it  would  or  w^ould  not  be  cowardly;  it  was 
simply  a  necessity.  The  thing  had  to  be  stopped.  He 
had  to  have  rest  and  sleep  and  peace  again.  He  had 
boasted  in  those  reckless,  prosperous  days  that  if  by 
any  possible  chance  he  should  lose  his  money  he  would 
drive  a  hansom,  or  emigrate  to  the  colonies,  or  take 
the  shilling.  He  had  no  patience  in  those  days  with 
men  who  could  not  live  on  in  adversity,  and  who  were 
found  in  the  gun-room  with  a  hole  in  their  heads,  and 
whose  family  asked  their  polite  friends  to  believe  that 
a  man  used  to  firearms  from  his  school-days  had  tried 
to  load  a  hair-trigger  revolver  with  the  muzzle  pointed 
at  his  forehead.  He  had  expressed  a  fine  contempt  for 
those  men  then,  but  now  he  had  forgotten  all  that,  and 
thought  only  of  the  relief  it  would  bring,  and  not  how 
others  might  suffer  by  it.  If  he  did  consider  this,  it 
was  only  to  conclude  that  they  would  quite  understand, 
and  be  glad  that  his  pain  and  fear  were  over. 

Then  he  planned  a  grand  coup  which  w^as  to  pay 
ofT  all  his  debts  and  give  him  a  second  chance  to  pre- 
sent himself  a  supplicant  at  his  father's  house.  If  it 
failed,  he  would  have  to  stop  this  queer  feeling  in  his 
head  at  once.  The  Grand  Prix  and  the  English  horse 
was  the  final  coup.     On  this  depended  everything — • 


lO  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

the  return  of  his  fortunes,  the  reconciliation  with  his 
father,  and  the  possibility  of  meeting  her  again.  It 
was  a  very  hot  clay  he  remembered,  and  very  bright; 
but  the  tall  poplars  on  the  road  to  the  races  seemed 
to  stop  growing  just  at  a  level  with  his  eyes.  Below 
that  it  was  clear  enough,  but  all  above  seemed  black 
—  as  though  a  cloud  had  fallen  and  was  hanging  just 
over  the  people's  heads.  He  thought  of  speaking  of 
this  to  his  man  Walters,  who  had  followed  his  fortunes 
from  the  first,  but  decided  not  to  do  so,  for,  as  it  was, 
he  had  noticed  that  Walters  had  observed  him  closely 
of  late,  and  had  seemed  to  spy  upon  him.  The  race 
began,  and  he  looked  through  his  glass  for  the  Eng- 
lish horse  in  the  front  and  could  not  find  her,  and  the 
Frenchman  beside  him  cried,  "  Frou  Frou !  "  as  Frou 
Frou  passed  the  goal.  He  lowered  his  glasses  slowly 
and  unscrew^ed  them  very  carefully  before  dropping 
them  back  into  the  case;  then  he  buckled  the  strap, 
and  turned  and  looked  about  him.  Two  Frenchmen 
who  had  won  a  hundred  francs  between  them  were 
jumping  and  dancing  at  his  side.  He  remembered 
wondering  why  they  did  not  speak  in  English.  Then 
the  sunlight  changed  to  a  yellow,  nasty  glare,  as 
though  a  calcium  light  had  been  turned  on  the  glass 
and  colors,  and  he  pushed  his  way  back  to  his  car- 
riage, leaning  heavily  on  the  servant's  arm,  and  drove 
slowly  back  to  Paris,  with  the  driver  flecking  his 
horses  fretfully  with  his  whip,  for  he  had  wished  to 
wait  and  see  the  end  of  the  races. 

He  had  selected  Monte  Carlo  as  the  place  for  it, 
because  it  was  more  unlike  his  home  than  any  other 
spot,  and  because  one  summer  night,  when  he   had 


••  THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND   NINE  1 1 

crossed  the  lawn  from  the  Casino  to  the  hotel  with  a 
gay  party  of  young  men  and  women,  they  had  come 
across  something  under  a  bush  which  they  took  to 
be  a  dog  or  a  man  asleep,  and  one  of  the  men  had 
stepped  forward  and  touched  it  with  his  foot,  and 
had  then  turned  sharply  and  said,  "  Take  those  girls 
away";  and  while  some  hurried  the  women  back, 
frightened  and  curious,  he  and  the  others  had  picked 
up  the  body  and  found  it  to  be  that  of  a  young  Rus- 
sian whom  they  had  just  seen  losing,  with  a  very  bad 
grace,  at  the  tables.  There  was  no  passion  in  his  face 
now,  and  his  evening  dress  was  quite  unruffled,  and 
only  a  black  spot  on  the  shirt  front  showed  where  the 
powder  had  burnt  the  linen.  It  had  made  a  great  im- 
pression on  him  then,  for  he  was  at  the  height  of  his 
fortunes,  with  crowds  of  sycophantic  friends  and  a 
retinue  of  dependents  at  his  heels.  And  now  that  he 
was  quite  alone  and  disinherited  by  even  these  sorry 
companions  there  seemed  no  other  escape  from  the 
pain  in  his  brain  but  to  end  it,  and  he  sought  this 
place  of  all  others  as  the  most  fitting  place  in  which 
to  die. 

So,  after  Walters  had  given  the  proper  papers  and 
checks  to  the  commissioner  who  handled  his  debts 
for  him,  he  left  Paris  and  took  the  first  train  for  Monte 
Carlo,  sitting  at  the  window  of  the  carriage,  and  beat- 
ing a  nervous  tattoo  on  the  pane  with  his  ring  until 
the  old  gentleman  at  the  other  end  of  the  compart- 
ment scowled  at  him.  But  Harringford  did  not  see 
him,  nor  the  trees  and  fields  as  they  swept  by,  and  it 
was  not  until  Walters  came  and  said,  "  You  get  out 
here,  sir."  that  he  recognized  the  yellow  station  and 


12  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

the  great  hotels  on  the  hill  above.  It  was  half-past 
eleven,  and  the  lights  in  the  Casino  were  still  burn- 
ing brightly.  He  wondered  whether  he  would  have 
time  to  go  over  to  the  hotel  and  write  a  letter  to  his 
father  and  to  her.  He  decided,  after  some  difficult 
consideration,  that  he  would  not.  There  was  nothing 
to  say  that  they  did  not  know  already,  or  that  they 
would  fail  to  understand.  But  this  suggested  to  him 
that  what  they  had  written  to  him  must  be  destroyed 
at  once,  before  any  stranger  could  claim  the  right 
to  read  it.  He  took  his  letters  from  his  pocket  and 
looked  them  over  carefully.  They  were  most  unpleas- 
ant reading.  They  all  seemed  to  be  about  money; 
some  begged  to  remind  him  of  this  or  that  debt,  of 
which  he  had  thought  continuously  for  the  last  month, 
while  others  were  abusive  and  insolent.  Each  of  them 
gave  him  actual  pain.  One  was  the  last  letter  he 
had  received  from  his  father  just  before  leaving  Paris, 
and  though  he  knew  it  by  heart,  he  read  it  over  again 
for  the  last  time.  That  it  came  too  late,  that  it  asked 
what  he  knew  now  to  be  impossible,  made  it  none 
the  less  grateful  to  him,  but  that  it  offered  peace  and 
a  welcome  home  made  it  all  the  more  terrible. 

"  I  came  to  take  this  step  through  young  Har- 
graves.  the  new  curate,"  his  father  wrote,  "  though  he 
was  but  the  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence. 
He  showed  me  the  error  of  my  conduct  toward  you, 
and  proved  to  me  that  my  duty  and  the  inclination 
of  my  heart  were  toward  the  same  end.  He  read  this 
morning  for  the  second  lesson  the  story  of  the  Prodi- 
gal Son,  and  I  heard  it  without  recognition  and  with 
no  present  application  until  he  came  to  the  verse  which 


"THERE   WERE   NINETY    AND   NINE*'  I3 

tells  how  the  father  came  to  his  son  '  when  he  was 
yet  a  great  way  off.'  He  saw  him,  it  says,  '  when  he 
was  yet  a  great  way  off,'  and  ran  to  meet  him.  He  did 
not  wait  for  the  boy  to  knock  at  his  gate  and  beg  to 
be  let  in,  but  went  out  to  meet  him,  and  took  him  in' 
his  arms  and  led  him  back  to  his  home.  Now,  my 
boy,  my  son,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  you  had  never  been 
so  far  off  from  me  as  you  are  at  this  present  time,  as 
if  you  had  never  been  so  greatly  separated  from  me 
in  every  thought  and  interest;  we  are  even  worse  than 
strangers,  for  you  think  that  my  hand  is  against  you, 
that  I  have  closed  the  door  of  your  home  to  you  and 
driven  you  away.  But  what  I  have  done  I  beg  of 
you  to  forgive;  to  forget  what  I  may  have  said  in 
the  past,  and  only  to  think  of  what  I  say  now.  Your 
brothers  are  good  boys  and  have  been  good  sons 
to  me,  and  God  knows  I  am  thankful  for  such  sons, 
and  thankful  to  them  for  bearing  themselves  as  they 
have  done. 

"  But,  my  boy,  my  first-born,  my  little  Cecil,  they 
can  never  be  to  me  what  you  have  been.  I  can  never 
feel  for  them  as  I  feel  for  you;  they  are  the  ninety 
and  nine  who  have  never  wandered  away  upon  the 
mountains,  and  who  have  never  been  tempted,  and 
have  never  left  their  home  for  either  good  or  evil. 
But  you,  Cecil,  though  you  have  made  my  heart  ache 
until  I  thought  and  even  hoped  it  w^ould  stop  beat- 
ing, and  though  you  have  given  me  many,  many 
nights  that  I  could  not  sleep,  are  still  dearer  to  me 
than  anything  else  in  the  world.  You  are  the  flesh 
of  my  flesh  and  the  bone  of  my  bone,  and  I  cannot 
bear  living  on  without  you.    I  cannot  be  at  rest  here, 


14  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

or  look  forward  contentedly  to  a  rest  hereafter,  un- 
less you  are  by  me  and  hear  me,  unless  I  can  see  your 
face  and  touch  you  and  hear  your  laugh  in  the  halls. 
Come  back  to  me,  Cecil;  to  Harringford  and  the  peo- 
ple that  know  you  best,  and  know  what  is  best  in 
you  and  love  you  for  it.  I  can  have  only  a  few  more 
years  here  now  when  you  will  take  my  place  and  keep 
up  my  name.  I  will  not  be  here  to  trouble  you  much 
longer;  but,  my  boy,  while  I  am  here,  come  to  me 
and  make  me  happy  for  the  rest  of  my  life.  There 
are  others  who  need  you,  Cecil.  You  know  whom 
I  mean.  I  saw  her  only  yesterday,  and  she  asked  me 
of  you  with  such  splendid  disregard  for  what  the 
others  standing  by  might  think,  and  as  though  she 
dared  me  or  them  to  say  or  even  imagine  anything 
against  you.  You  cannot  keep  away  from  us  both 
much  longer.  Surely  not;  you  will  come  back  and 
make  us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  turned  his  back  to  the 
lights  so  that  the  people  passing  could  not  see  his 
face,  and  tore  the  letter  up  slowly  and  dropped  it 
piece  by  piece  over  the  balcony. 

''If  I  could,"  he  whispered;  "if  I  could."  The 
pain  was  a  little  worse  than  usual  just  then,  but  it  was 
no  longer  a  question  of  inclination.  He  felt  only 
this  desire  to  stop  these  thoughts  and  doubts  and  the 
physical  tremor  that  shook  him.  To  rest  and  sleep, 
that  was  what  he  must  have,  and  peace.  There  was 
no  peace  at  home  or  anywhere  else  while  this  thing 
lasted.  He  could  not  see  w'hy  they  worried  him  in 
this  way.  It  was  quite  impossible.  He  felt  much 
more  sorry  for  them  than  for  himself,  but  only  be- 


"THERE   WERE   NINETY  AND   NINE"  1 5 

cause  they  could  not  understand.  He  was  quite  sure 
that  if  they  could  feel  what  he  suffered  they  would 
help  him,  even  to  end  it. 

He  had  been  standing  for  some  time  with  his  back 
to  the  light,  but  now  he  turned  to  face  it  and  to  take 
up  his  watch  again.  He  felt  quite  sure  the  lights 
would  not  burn  much  longer.  As  he  turned,  a  woman 
came  forward  from  out  the  lighted  hall,  hovered  uncer- 
tainly before  him,  and  then  made  a  silent  salutation, 
which  was  something  between  a  courtesy  and  a  bow. 
That  she  was  a  woman  and  rather  short  and  plainly 
dressed,  and  that  her  bobbing  up  and  down  annoyed 
him,  was  all  that  he  realized  of  her  presence,  and  he 
quite  failed  to  connect  her  movements  with  himself 
in  any  way.  "  Sir,"  she  said  in  French,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  might  I  speak  with  you?"  The  Good- 
wood Plunger  possessed  a  somewhat  various  knowl- 
edge of  Monte  Carlo  and  its  habitues.  It  was.  not  the 
first  time  that  women  who  had  lost  at  the  tables  had 
begged  a  napoleon  from  him,  or  asked  the  distin- 
guished child  of  fortune  what  color  or  combination 
she  should  play.  That,  in  his  luckier  days,  had  hap- 
pened often  and  had  amused  him,  but  now  he  moved 
back  irritably  and  wished  that  the  figure  in  front  of 
him  w^ould  disappear  as  it  had  come. 

"  I  am  in  great  trouble,  sir,"  the  wom.an  said.  "  I 
have  no  friends  here,  sir,  to  whom  I  may  apply.  I 
am  very  bold,  but  my  anxiety  is  very  great." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  raised  his  hat  slightly  and 
bowed.  Then  he  concentrated  his  eyes  with  what  was 
a  distinct  effort  on  the  queer  little  figure  hovering  in 
front  of  him,  and  stared  very  hard.    She  wore  an  odd 


l6  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

piece  of  red  coral  for  a  brooch,  and  by  looking  stead- 
ily at  this  he  brought  the  rest  of  the  figure  into  focus 
and  saw,  without  surprise,  —  for  every  commonplace 
seemed  strange  to  him  now,  and  everything  peculiar 
quite  a  matter  of  course,  —  that  she  was  distinctly 
not  an  habitiicc  of  the  place,  and  looked  more  like 
a  lady's  maid  than  an  adventuress.  She  was  French 
and  pretty,  —  such  a  girl  as  might  wait  in  a  Duval 
restaurant  or  sit  as  a  cashier  behind  a  little  counter 
near  the  door. 

"  We  should  not  be  here/'  she  said,  as  if  in  answer 
to  his  look  and  in  apology  for  her  presence.  "  But 
Louis,  my  husband,  he  would  come.  I  told  him  that 
this  was  not  for  such  as  we  are,  but  Louis  is  so  bold. 
He  said  that  upon  his  marriage  tour  he  would  live 
with  the  best,  and  so  here  he  must  come  to  play  as 
the  others  do.  We  have  been  married,  sir,  only  since 
Tuesday,  and  we  must  go  back  to  Paris  to-morrow; 
they  would  give  him  only  the  three  days.  He  is  not 
a  gambler;  he  plays  dominos  at  the  cafes,  it  is  true. 
But  what  will  you?  He  is  young  and  with  so  much 
spirit,  and  I  know  that  you,  sir,  who  are  so  fortunate 
and  who  understand  so  well  how  to  control  these 
tables,  I  know  that  you  will  persuade  him.  He  will 
not  listen  to  me;  he  is  so  greatly  excited  and  so  little 
like  himself.  You  will  help  me,  sir,  will  you  not? 
You  will  speak  to  him?" 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  knit  his  eyebrows  and 
closed  the  lids  once  oi  twice,  and  forced  the  mistiness 
and  pain  out  of  his  eyes.  It  was  most  annoying.  The 
woman  seemed  to  be  talking  a  great  deal  and  to  say 
very  much,  but  he  could  not  make  sense  of  it.     He 


"  THERE   WERE    NINETY   AND    NINE  I7 

moved  his  shoulders  slightly.     "  I  can't  understand," 
he  said  wearily,  turning  away. 

"It  is  my  husband,"  the  woman  said  anxiously: 
"  Louis,  he  is  playing  at  the  table  inside,  and  he  is 
only  an  apprentice  to  old  Carbut  the  baker,  but  he 
owns  a  third  of  the  store.  It  was  my  dot-  that  paid 
for  it,"  she  added,  proudly.  **  Old  Carbut  says  he  • 
may  have  it  all  for  20,000  francs,  and  then  old  Carbut 
will  retire,  and  we  will  be  proprietors.  We  have  saved 
a  little,  and  we  had  counted  to  buy  the  rest  in  five  or 
six  years  if  we  were  very  careful." 

■'  I  see,  I  see,"  said  the  Plunger,  with  a  little  short 
laugh  of  relief;  "  I  understand."  He  was  greatly 
comforted  to  think  that  it  was  not  so  bad  as  it  had 
threatened.  He  saw  her  distinctly  now  and  followed 
what  she  said  quite  easily,  and  even  such  a  small  mat- 
ter as  talking  with  this  woman  seemed  to  help  him. 

"  He  is  gambling,"  he  said,  "  and  losing  the  money, 
and  you  come  to  me  to  advise  him  what  to  play.  I 
understand.  Well,  tell  him  he  will  lose  what  little  he 
has  left;  tell  him  I  advise  him  to  go  home;  tell 
him " 

"No,  no!"  the  girl  said,  excitedly;  "you  do  not 
understand;  he  has  not  lost,  he  has  won.  He  has  won, 
oh,  so  many  rolls  of  money,  but  he  will  not  stop.  Do 
you  not  see?  He  has  won  as  much  as  we  could  earn 
in  many  months  —  in  many  years,  sir.  by  saving  and 
working,  oh,  so  very  hard !  And  now  he  risks  it  again, 
and  I  cannot  force  him  away.  But  if  you,  sir,  if  you 
would  tell  him  how  great  the  chances  are  against  him, 
if  you  who  know  would  tell  him  how  foolish  he  is  not 
to  be  content  with  \\hat  he  has,  he  would  listen.     He 


I8  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

says  to  me,  '  Bah!  you  are  a  woman  ';  and  he  is  so 
red  and  fierce;  he  is  imbecile  with  the  sight  of  the 
money,  but  he  will  listen  to  a  grand  gentleman  like 
you.  He  thinks  to  win  more  and  more,  and  he  thinks 
to  buy  another  third  from  old  Carbut.  Is  it  not  fool- 
ish?   It  is  so  wicked  of  him." 

-  "  Oh,  yes,"  said  the  Goodwood  Plunger,  nodding, 
"  I  see  now.  You  want  me  to  take  him  away  so  that 
he  can  keep  what  he  has.  I  see;  but  I  don't  know 
him.  He  will  not  listen  to  me,  you  know;  I  have  no 
right  to  interfere." 

He  turned  away,  rubbing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head. He  wished  so  much  that  this  woman  would 
leave  him  by  himself. 

"  Ah,  but,  sir,"  cried  the  girl,  desperately,  and  touch- 
ing his  coat,  "  you  who  are  so  fortunate,  and  so  rich, 
and  of  the  great  world,  you  cannot  feel  what  this  is 
to  me.  To  have  my  own  little  shop  and  to  be  free, 
and  not  to  slave,  and  sew,  and  sew  until  my  back  and 
fingers  burn  with  the  pain.  Speak  to  him,  sir;  ah, 
speak  to  him !  It  is  so  easy  a  thing  to  do,  and  he  will 
listen  to  you." 

The  Goodwood  Plunger  turned  again  abruptly. 
"  Where  is  he?  "  he  said.    "  Point  him  out  to  me." 

The  woman  ran  ahead,  with  a  murmur  of  gratitude, 
to  the  open  door  and  pointed  to  where  her  husband 
was  standing  leaning  over  and  placing  some  money 
on  one  of  the  tables.  He  was  a  handsome  young 
Frenchman,  as  bourgeois  as  his  wife,  and  now  terribly 
alive  and  excited.  In  the  self-contained  air  of  the 
place  and  in  contrast  with  the  silence  of  the  great  hall 
he  seemed   even  more   conspicuously   out   of  place. 


"  THERE   WERE   NINETY    AND    NINE  "  IQ 

The  Plunger  touched  him  on  the  arm,  and  the  French- 
man shoved  the  hand  off  impatiently  and  without 
looking-  around.  The  Plunger  touched  him  again  and 
forced  him  to  turn  toward  him. 

"  Well!  "  said  the  Frenchman,  quickly.     "  Well?  " 

"  Madame,  your  wife,"  said  Cecil,  with  the  grave 
politeness  of  an  old  man,  "  has  done  me  the  honor 
to  take  me  into  her  confidence.  She  tells  me  that 
you  have  won  a  great  deal  of  money;  that  you  could 
put  it  to  good  use  at  home,  and  so  save  yourselves 
much  drudgery  and  debt,  and  all  that  sort  of  trouble. 
You  are  quite  right  if  you  say  it  is  no  concern  of 
mine.  It  is  not.  But  really,  you  know  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  sense  in  what  she  wants,  and  you  have 
apparently  already  won  a  large  sum." 

The  Frenchman  was  visibly  surprised  at  this  ap- 
proach. He  paused  for  a  second  or  two  in  some 
doubt,  and  even  awe,  for  the  disinherited  one  carried 
the  mark  of  a  personage  of  consideration  and  of  one 
whose  position  is  secure.  Then  he  gave  a  short,  un- 
mirthful  laugh. 

"  You  are  most  kind,  sir,"  he  said  with  mock  polite- 
ness and  with  an  impatient  shrug.  "  But  madame, 
my  wife,  has  not  done  well  to  interest  a  stranger  in 
this  affair,  which,  as  you  say,  concerns  you  not." 

He  turned  to  the  table  again  with  a  defiant  swagger 
of  independence  and  placed  two  rolls  of  money  upon 
the  cloth,  casting  at  the  same  moment  a  childish  look 
of  displeasure  at  his  wife.  "  You  see,"  said  the 
Plunger,  with  a  deprecatory  turning  out  of  his  hands. 
But  there  was  so  much  grief  on  the  girl's  face  that 
he  turned  again  to  the  gambler  and  touched  his  arm. 


XU  UKAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

He  could  not  tell  why  he  was  so  interested  in  these 
two.  He  had  witnessed  many  such  scenes  before,  and 
they  had  not  affected  him  in  any  way  except  to  make 
him  move  out  of  hearing.  But  the  same  dumb  numb- 
ness in  his  head,  w  hich  made  so  many  things  seem  pos- 
sible that  should  have  been  terrible  even  to  think 
upon,  made  him  stubborn  and  unreasonable  over  this. 
He  felt  intuitively  —  it  could  not  be  said  that  he 
thought  —  that  the  woman  was  right  and  the  man 
wrong,  and  so  he  grasped  him  again  by  the  arm,  and 
said,  sharply  this  time : 

"  Come  away !  Do  you  hear?  You  are  acting  fool- 
ishly." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  the  red  won,  and  the  French- 
man with  a  boyish  gurgle  of  pleasure  raked  in  his 
winnings  with  his  two  hands,  and  then  turned  with  a 
happy,  triumphant  laugh  to  his  wife.  It  is  not  easy 
to  convince  a  man  that  he  is  making  a  fool  of  him- 
self when  he  is  winning  some  hundred  francs  every 
two  minutes.  His  silent  arguments  to  the  contrary 
are  dilificult  to  answ^er.  But  the  Plunger  did  not  re- 
gard this  in  the  least. 

"  Do  you  hear  me?  "  he  said  in  the  same  stubbor.l 
tone  and  with  much  the  same  manner  with  which  he 
would  have  spoken  to  a  groom.     "  Come  away." 

Again  the  Frenchman  tossed  off  his  hand,  this  time 
with  an  execration,  and  again  he  placed  the  rolls  of 
gold  coin  on  the  red;  and  again  the  red  won. 

"  My  God !  "  cried  the  girl,  running  her  fingers  over 
the  rolls  on  the  table,  "  he  has  won  half  of  the  20,000 
francs.  Oh,  sir,  stop  him,  stop  him !  "  she  cried. 
"  Take  him  away." 


••THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND    NINE"  21 

"  Do  you  hear  me !  "  cried  the  Plunger,  excited  to 
a  degree  of  utter  self-forgetfuhiess,  and  carried  be- 
yond himself;   "  you've  got  to  come  with  me." 

"  Take  away  your  hand,"  whispered  the  young 
Frenchman,  fiercely.  "  See,  I  shall  win  it  all;  in  one 
grand  coup  I  shall  win  it  all.  I  shall  win  five  years' 
pay  in  one  moment." 

He  swept  all  of  the  money  forward  on  the  red  and 
threw  himself  over  the  table  to  see  the  wheel. 

"  Wait,  confound  you !  "  whispered  the  Plunger, 
excitedly.  "  If  you  will  risk  it,  risk  it  with  some  reason. 
You  can't  play  all  that  money;  they  won't  take  it. 
Six  thousand  francs  is  the  limit,  unless,"  he  ran  on 
quickly,  "you  divide  the  12,000  francs  among  the 
three  of  us.  You  understand,  6,000  francs  is  all  that 
any  one  person  can  play;  but  if  you  give  4,000  to 
me,  and  4,000  to  your  wife,  and  keep  4,000  yourself, 
we  can  each  chance  it.  You  can  back  the  red  if  you 
like,  your  wife  shall  put  her  money  on  the  numbers 
coming  up  below  eighteen,  and  I  will  back  the  odd. 
[n  that  way  you  stand  to  win  24,000  francs  if  our 
combination  w-ins,  and  you  lose  less  than  if  you  simply 
back  the  color.     Do  you  understand?  " 

"  No !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  reaching  for  the  piles 
of  money  which  the  Plunger  had  divided  rapidly  into 
three  parts,  "  on  the  red ;   all  on  the  red !  " 

"  Good  Heavens,  man !  "  cried  the  Plunger,  bitterly. 
"  I  may  not  know  much,  but  you  should  allow  me 
to  understand  this  dirty  business."  He  caught  the 
Frenchman  by  the  wrists,  and  the  young  man,  more 
impressed  with  the  strange  look  in  the  boy's  face  than 
by  his  physical  force,  stood  still,  while  the  ball  rolled 


22  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

and  rolled,  and  clicked  merrily,  and  stopped,  and  bal- 
anced, and  then  settled  into  the  "  seven." 

"  Red,  odd,  and  below,"  the  croupier  droned  me- 
chanically. 

"Ah!  you  see;  what  did  I  tell  you?"  said  the 
Plunger,  with  sudden  calmness.  "  You  have  won 
more  than  your  20,000  francs;  you  are  proprietors  — 
I  congratulate  you !  " 

"  Ah,  my  God !  "  cried  the  Frenchman,  in  a  frenzy 
of  delight,  "  I  will  double  it." 

He  reached  toward  the  fresh  piles  of  coin  as  if  he 
meant  to  sweep  them  back  again,  but  the  Plunger 
put  himself  in  his  way  and  with  a  quick  movement 
caught  up  the  rolls  of  money  and  dropped  them  into 
the  skirt  of  the  woman,  which  she  raised  like  an  apron 
to  receive  her  treasure. 

"  Now,"  said  young  Harringford,  determinedly, 
"  you  come  with  me."  The  Frenchman  tried  to  argue 
and  resist,  but  the  Plunger  pushed  him  on  with  the 
silent  stubbornness  of  a  drunken  man.  He  handed 
the  woman  into  a  carriage  at  the  door,  shoved  her 
husband  in  beside  her,  and  while  the  man  drove  to 
the  address  she  gave  him,  he  told  the  Frenchman,  with 
an  air  of  a  chief  of  police,  that  he  must  leave  Monte 
Carlo  at  once,  that  very  night. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  don't  know?"  he  said.  "  Do 
you  fancy  I  speak  without  knowledge?  I've  seen  them 
come  here  rich  and  go  away  paupers.  But  you  shall 
not;  you  shall  keep  what  you  have  and  spite  them." 
He  sent  the  woman  up  to  her  room  to  pack  while  he 
expostulated  with  and  browbeat  the  excited  bride- 
groom in  the  carriage.     When  she  returned  with  the 


^*  THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND    NINE  "  2$ 

bag  packed,  and  so  heavy  with  the  gold  that  the  ser- 
vants could  hardly  lift  it  up  beside  the  driver,  he  or- 
dered the  coachman  to  go  down  the  hill  to  the  station. 

"  The  train  for  Paris  leaves  at  midnight,"  he  said, 
"  and  you  will  be  there  by  morning.  Then  you  must 
close  your  bargain  with  this  old  Carbut,  and  never 
return  here  again." 

The  Frenchman  had  turned  during  the  ride  from 
an  angry,  indignant  prisoner  to  a  joyful  madman,  and 
was  now  tearfully  and  effusively  humble  in  his  peti- 
tions for  pardon  and  in  his  thanks.  Their  benefactor, 
as  they  were  pleased  to  call  him,  hurried  them  into 
the  waiting  train  and  ran  to  purchase  their  tickets 
for  them. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  as  the  guard  locked  the  door  of 
the  compartment,  "  you  are  alone,  and  no  one  can 
get  in,  and  you  cannot  get  out.  Go  back  to  your  home, 
to  your  new  home,  and  never  come  to  this  wretched 
place  again.  Promise  me  —  you  understand?  —  never 
again !  " 

They  promised  with  effusive  reiteration.  They  em- 
braced each  other  like  children,  and  the  man,  pulling 
oflf  his  hat,  called  upon  the  good  Lord  to  thank  the 
gentleman. 

"You  will  be  in  Paris,  will  you  not?"  said  the 
woman,  in  an  ecstasy  of  pleasure,  "  and  you  will  come 
to  see  us  in  our  own  shop,  will  you  not?  Ah!  we 
should  be  so  greatly  honored,  sir,  if  you  would  visit 
us;  if  you  would  come  to  the  home  you  have  given 
us.  You  have  helped  us  so  greatly,  sir,"  she  said; 
*'  and  may  Heaven  bless  you  !  " 

She  caught  up  his  gloved  hand  as  it  rested  on  the 


24  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

door  and  kissed  it  until  he  snatclied  it  away  in  great 
embarrassment  and  flushing  Hke  a  girl.  Her  husband 
drew  her  toward  him,  and  the  young  bride  sat  at  his 
side  with  her  face  close  to  his  and  wept  tears  of  pleas- 
ure and  of  excitement. 

"Ah,  look,  sir!"  said  the  young  man,  joyfully; 
"  look  how  happy  you  have  made  us.  You  have  made 
us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

The  train  moved  out  with  a  quick,  heavy  rush,  and 
the  car-wheels  took  up  the  young  stranger's  last  words 
and  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  made  us  happy  —  made 
us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

It  had  all  come  about  so  rapidly  that  the  Plunger 
had  had  no  time  to  consider  or  to  weigh  his  motives, 
and  all  that  seemed  real  to  him  now,  as  he  stood  alone 
on  the  platform  of  the  dark,  deserted  station,  were  the 
words  of  the  man  echoing  and  re-echoing  like  the  re- 
frain of  the  song.  And  then  there  came  to  him  sud- 
denly, and  with  all  the  force  of  a  gambler's  supersti- 
tion, the  thought  that  the  words  were  the  same  as 
those  which  his  father  had  used  in  his  letter,  "  You 
can  make  us  happy  for  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  with  a  quick  gasp  of  doubt,  "if  I 
could !  If  I  made  those  poor  fools  happy,  mayn't  I 
live  to  be  something  to  him,  and  to  her?  O  God!  " 
he  cried,  but  so  gently  that  one  at  his  elbow  could  not 
have  heard  him,  "  if  I  could,  if  I  could !  " 

He  tossed  up  his  hands,  and  drew  them  down  again 
and  clenched  them  in  front  of  him,  and  raised  his  tired, 
hot  eyes  to  the  calm  purple  sky  with  its  millions  of 
moving  stars.  "  Help  me !  "  he  whispered  fiercely, 
"  help  me."     And  a§  he  lowered  his  head  the  queei 


"THERE   WERE   NINETY   AND    NINE  25 

numl)  feeling  seemed  to  go,  and  a  calm  came  over  his 
nerves  and  left  him  in  peace.  He  did  not  know  what 
it  might  be,  nor  did  he  dare  to  question  the  change 
which  had  come  to  him^  but  turned  and  slowly 
mounted  the  hill,  with  the  awe  and  fear  still  upon  him 
of  one  who  had  passed  beyond  himself  for  one  brief 
moment  into  another  world.  When  he  reached  his 
room  he  found  his  servant  bending  with  an  anxious 
face  over  a  letter  which  he  tore  up  guiltily  as  his  master 
entered. 

"  You  were  writing  to  my  father,"  said  Cecil,  gently, 
"were  you  not?  ^^'ell.  you  need  not  finish  your  let- 
ter; we  are  going  home. 

"  I  am  going  away  from  this  place,  ^\'alters,"  he 
said  as  he  pulled  ofT  his  coat  and  threw  himself  heavily 
on  the  bed.  "  I  will  take  the  first  train  that  leaves 
here,  and  I  will  sleep  a  little  while  you  put  up  my 
things.  The  first  train,  you  understand — within  an 
hour,  if  it  leaves  that  soon."  His  head  sank  back  on 
the  pillows  heavily,  as  though  he  had  come  in  from  a 
long,  weary  walk,  and  his  eyes  closed  and  his  arms  fell 
easily  at  his  side.  The  servant  stood  frightened  and 
yet  happy,  with  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks, 
for  he  loved  his  master  dearly. 

"  We  are  going  home,  Walters,"  the  Plunger  whis- 
pered, drowsily.  "We  are  going  home;  home  to 
England  and  Harringford  and  the  governor — and  we 
are  going  to  be  happy  for  all  the  rest  of  our  lives."  He 
paused  a  moment,  and  Walters  bent  forward  over  the 
bed  and  held  his  breath  to  listen. 

"  For  he  came  to  me,"  murmured  the  boy,  as  though 
he  was  speaking  in  his  sleep,  "  when  I  was  yet  a  great 


26  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

way  off — while  I  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  and  ran  to 

meet  me 

His  voice  sank  until  it  died  away  into  silence,  and 
a  few  hours  later,  when  Walters  came  to  wake  him, 
he  found  his  master  sleeping  like  a  child  and  smiling 
in  his  sleep 


THE  REVOLT  OF  "  ^lOTHER  "  * 

MARY    E.    WILKINS 

**  Father!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  What  are  them  men  diggin'  over  there  in  the  field 
for?  " 

There  was  a  sudden  dropping  and  enlarging  of  the 
lower  part  of  the  old  man's  face,  as  if  some  heavy 
weight  had  settled  therein;  he  shut  his  mouth  tight, 
and  went  on  harnessing  the  great  bay  mare. 

"Father!" 

The  old  man  slapped  the  saddle  upon  the  mare's 
back. 

"  Look  here,  father,  I  want  to  know  what  them 
men  are  diggin'  over  in  the  field  for,  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
know." 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  house,  mother,  an'  'tend 
to  your  own  affairs,"  the  old  man  said. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  into  the  house  till  you  tell  me  what 
them  men  are  doin'  over  there  in  the  field,"  said  she. 

Then  she  stood  waiting.  She  was  a  small  woman. 
Her  forehead  was  mild  and  benevolent  between  the 
smooth  curves  of  gray  hair;  .there  were  meek  down- 
ward lines  about  her  nose  and  mouth;    but  her  eyes, 

*  Abridged  from  Miss  Mary  E.  Wilkins's  story  "  The  Revolt  of 
Mother,"  from  "  A  New  England  Nun  and  Other  Stories,"  Copyright, 
xSgi,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


28  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

fixed  upon  the  old  man,  looked  as  if  the  meekness  had 
been  the  result  of  her  own  will,  never  of  the  will  of 
another. 

The  old  man  glanced  doggedly  at  his  wife  as  he 
tightened  the  last  buckles  on  the  harness.  She  looked 
as  immovable  to  him  as  one  of  the  rocks  in  his  pasture- 
*land,  bound  to  the  earth  with  generations  of  black- 
berry vines.  He  slapped  the  reins  over  the  horse,  and 
started  forth  from  the  barn. 

"  Father!  "  said  she. 

The  old  man  pulled  up.     ''  What  is  it?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  wdiat  them  men  are  diggin'  over 
there  in  that  field  for." 

"  They're  diggin'  a  cellar,  I  s'pose,  if  you've  got  to 
know." 

"  A  cellar  for  what?  " 

"  A  barn." 

"A  barn?  You  ain't  goin'  to  build  a  barn  over  there 
where  w^e  w-as  goin'  to  have  a  house,  father?  " 

The  old  man  said  not  another  word.  He  hurried 
the  horse  into  the  farm  wagon,  and  clattered  out  of 
the  yard. 

The  woman  stood  a  moment  looking  after  him,  then 
she  went  out  of  the  barn  across  a  corner  of  the  yard 
to  the  house.  The  house,  standing  at  right  angles 
with  the  great  barn  and  a  long  reach  of  sheds  and  out- 
buildings, was  infinitesimal  compared  with  them.  It 
was  scarcely  as  commodious  for  people  as  the  little 
boxes  under  the  barn  eaves  were  for  doves. 

A  pretty  girl's  face,  pink  and  delicate  as  a  flower, 
was  looking  out  of  one  of  the  house  windows.  She 
was  watching  three  men  who  were  digging  over  in 


THE   REVOLT   OF   "  MOTHER  29 

the  field  which  bounded  the  yard  near  the  road  line. 
She  turned  quietly  when  the  woman  entered. 

"  What  are  they  digging  for,  mother?  "  said  she. 
''Did  he  tell  you?" 

"  They're  diggin'  for — a  cellar  for  a  new  barn." 

"  Oh,  mother,  he  ain't  going  to  build  another 
barn?  " 

"  That's  what  he  says." 

"  I  don't  see  what  father  wants  another  barn  for," 
said  the  girl,  in  her  sweet,  slow  voice.  She  turned 
again  to  the  window,  and  stared  out  at  the  digging 
men  in  the  field.  Her  tender,  sweet  face  was  full  of  a 
gentle  distress. 

Her  mother  said  nothing  more.  She  went  into  the 
pantry,  and  there  was  a  clatter  of  dishes.  The  girl 
went  to  the  sink,  and  began  to  w-ash  the  dishes  that 
were  piled  up  there.  Her  mother  came  promptly  out 
of  the  pantry,  and  shoved  her  aside.  "  You  wipe  'em," 
said  she;  "  I'll  wash.  There's  a  good  many  this  morn- 
in'." 

The  mother  plunged  her  hands  vigorously  into  the 
water,  the  girl  wiped  the  plates  slowly  and  dreamily. 
"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  don't  you  think  it's  too  bad 
father's  going  to  build  that  new  barn,  much  as  we 
need  a  decent  house  to  live  in?  " 

Her  mother  scrubbed  a  dish  fiercely.  "  You  ain't 
found  out  yet  we're  women-folks,  Nanny  Penn,"  said 
.she.  "  You  ain't  seen  enough  of  men-folks  yet  to. 
One  of  these  days  you'll  find  it  out,  an'  then  you'll 
know  that  we  know  only  what  men-folks  think  we  do, 
so  far  as  any  use  of  it  goes,  an'  how  we'd  ought  to 
reckon  men-folks  in  with  Providence,  an'  not  com- 


30  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

plain  of  what  they  do  any  more  than  we  do  of  the 
weather." 

"  I  don't  care;  I  don't  believe  George  is  anything 
like  that,  anyhow,"  said  Nanny.  Her  delicate  face 
flushed  pink,  her  lips  pouted  softly,  as  if  she  were  going 
to  cry. 

"  You  wait  an'  see.  I  guess  George  Eastman  ain't 
no  better  than  other  men.  You  hadn't  ought  to  judge 
father,  though.  He  can't  help  it,  'cause  he  don't  look 
at  things  jest  the  way  we  do." 

"  I  do  wish  we  had  a  parlor." 

"  I  guess  it  won't  hurt  George  Eastman  any  to  come 
to  see  you  in  a  nice  clean  kitchen.  I  guess  a  good 
many  girls  don't  have  as  good  a  place  as  this.  No- 
body's ever  heard  me  complain." 

"  I  ain't  complained  either,  mother." 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you'd  better,  a  good  father  an' 
a  good  home  as  you've  got.  S'pose  your  father  made 
you  go  out  an'  work  for  your  livin'.  Lots  of  girls  have 
to  that  ain't  no  stronger  an'  better  able  to  than  you  be." 

Nobility  of  character  manifests  itself  at  loop-holes 
when  it  is  not  provided  with  large  doors.  Sarah  Penn's 
showed  itself  to-day  in  flaky  dishes  of  pastry.  So  she 
made  the  pies  faithfully,  wdiile  across  the  table  she 
could  see,  when  she  glanced  up  from  her  work,  the 
sight  that  rankled  in  her  patient  and  steadfast  soul — 
the  digging  of  the  cellar  of  the  new  barn  in  the  place 
where  Adoniram  forty  years  ago  had  promised  her  their 
new  house  should  stand. 

The  pies  were  done  for  dinner.  The  dinner  was 
eaten  with  serious  haste.    There  was  never  much  con« 


THE   REVOLT   OF  "  MOTHER  "  3I 

versation  at  the  table  in  the  Penn  family.  Adoniram 
asked  a  blessing,  and  they  ate  promptly,  then  rose  up 
and  went  about  their  work. 

Adoniram  went  to  work  out  in  the  yard  unloading 
wood  from  the  wagon.  Airs.  Penn  went  to  the  door. 
"  Father!  "  she  called. 

"  Well,  what  is  it !  " 

"  I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute,  father." 

"  I  can't  leave  this  wood  nohow.  Pve  got  to  git  it 
unloaded  an'  go  for  a  load  of  gravel  afore  two  o'clock.'* 

"  I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute." 

"  I  tell  ye  I  can't,  nohow,  mother." 

"  Father,  you  come  here."  Sarah  Penn  stood  in 
the  door  like  a  queen;  she  held  her  head  as  if  it  bore 
a  crown;  there  was  that  patience  which  makes  au- 
thority royal  in  her  voice.    Adoniram  went. 

Mrs.  Penn  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen,  and  pointed 
to  a  chair.  "  Sit  down,  father,"  said  she;  "  Fve  got 
somethin'  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

He  sat  down  heavily;  his  face  was  quite  stolid,  but 
he  looked  at  her  with  restive  eyes.  "  Well,  what  is  it, 
mother?  " 

"  I  want  to  know  what  you're  buildin'  that  new  barn 
for,  father?  " 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it." 

"  It  can't  be  you  think  you  need  another  barn?  " 

"  I  tell  ye  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it,  mother; 
an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothin'." 

"  Be  you  goin'  to  buy  more  cows?  " 

Adoniram  did  not  reply;  he  shut  his  mouth  tight. 

"  I  know  you  be,  as  well  as  I  want  to.  Now,  father, 
look  here,  I'm  goin'  to  talk  real  plain  to  you;   I  never 


32  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

have  sence  I  married  you,  but  I'm  goin'  to  now.  You 
see  this  room  here,  father;  you  look  at  it  well.  You 
see  there  ain't  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  an"  you  see  the 
paper  is  all  dirty,  an'  droppin'  off  the  walls.  You  see 
this  room,  father;  it's  all  the  one  I've  had  to  work  in  an' 
eat  in  an'  sit  in  sence  we  were  married.  It's  all  the  room 
Nanny's  got  to  have  her  company  in.  It's  all  the  room 
she'll  have  to  be  married  in.  What  w^ould  you  have 
thought,  father,  if  we  had  had  our  weddin'  in  a  room 
no  better  than  this?  An'  this  is  all  the  room  my  daugh- 
ter will  have  to  be  married  in.    Look  here,  father !  " 

Sarah  Penn  went  across  the  room  as  though  it  were 
a  tragic  stage.  She  flung  open  a  door  and  disclosed  a 
tiny  bedroom,  only  large  enough  for  a  bed  and  bureau, 
with  a  path  between.  "  There,  father,"  said  she — • 
"  there's  all  the  room  I've  had  to  sleep  in  forty  year. 
All  my  children  were  born  there — the  two  that  died, 
an'  the  two  that's  livin'." 

She  threw  open  another  door.  A  narrow  crooked 
flight  of  stairs  wound  upward  from  it.  "  There,  fa- 
ther," said  she,  "  I  want  you  to  look  at  the  stairs  that  go 
up  to  them  two  unfinished  chambers  that  are  all  the 
places  our  son  an'  daughter  have  had  to  sleep  in  all 
their  lives.  It  ain't  so  good  as  your  horse's  stall;  it 
ain't  so  warm  an'  tight." 

Sarah  Penn  went  back  and  stood  before  her  hus- 
band. "  Now,  father,"  said  she,  ''  I  want  to  know  if 
you  think  you're  doin'  right  an'  accordin'  to  what  you 
profess.  Here,  when  we  was  married,  forty  year  ago, 
you  promised  me  faithful  that  we  should  have  a  new 
house  built  in  that  lot  over  in  the  field  before  the  year 
was  out.    It  is  forty  year  now,  an'  you've  been  makin' 


THE    REVOLT   OF   "  MOTHER  "  ,33 

more  money,  an'  I've  been  savin'  of  it  for  you  ever 
sence,  an'  yon  ain't  l)uilt  no  house  yet.  You've  built 
sheds  an'  cow-houses  an"  one  new  barn,  an'  now  you're 
goin'  to  build  another.  Father,  I  want  to  know  if 
you  think  it's  right.  You're  lodgin'  your  dumb  beasts 
better  than  you  are  your  own  flesh  an'  blood.  I  want 
to  know  if  you  think  it's  right." 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

"  You  can't  say  nothin'  without  ownin'  it  ain't  right, 
father." 

Mrs.  Penn's  face  was  burning;  her  mild  eyes 
gleamed.  She  had  pleaded  her  little  cause  like  a  Web- 
ster; she  had  ranged  from  severity  to  pathos;  but  her 
opponent  employed  that  obstinate  silence  which  makes 
eloquence  futile  with  mocking  echoes.  Adoniram  arose 
clumsily. 

*'  Father,  ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  say?  "  said  Mrs. 
Penn. 

"  Fve  got  to  go  off  after  that  load  of  gravel.  I 
can't  Stan'  here  talkin'  all  day." 

"  Father,  won't  you  think  it  over,  an'  have  a  house 
built  there  instead  of  a  barn?  " 

"  I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

The  barn  was  all  completed  ready  for  use  by  the 
third  week  in  July.  Adoniram  had  planned  to  move  his 
stock  in  on  Wednesday;  on  Tuesday  he  received  a  let- 
ter which  changed  his  plans.  "  Fve  got  a  letter  from 
Hiram,"  he  said.  "  He  says  he  thinks  if  I  come  up 
country  right  off  there's  a  chance  to  buy  jest  the  kind 
of  a  horse  I  want.  //  them  cows  come  to-day,  Snmmy 
can  drive  'em  into  the  new  barn,  an'  when  the>  bring 
the  ha.y  up,  they  can  pitch  it  in  there." 


34  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Adoniram  set  his  shaven  face  ahead  and  started. 
When  he  had  cleared  the  door-step,  he  turned  and 
looked  back  with  a  kind  of  nervous  solemnity.  "  I 
shall  be  back  by  Saturday  if  nothin'  happens,"  said  he. 

"  Do  be  careful,  father,"  returned  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Penn  hurried  her  baking;  at  eleven  o'clock  it 
was  all  done.  The  load  of  hay  from  the  west  field  came 
slowly  down  the  cart  track,  and  drew  up  at  the  new 
barn.  Mrs.  Penn  ran  out.  "  Stop !  "  she  screamed — 
"  stop !  " 

The  men  stopped  and  looked. 

"  Don't  you  put  the  hay  in  the  new  barn;  there's 
room  enough  in  the  old  one,  ain't  there?"  said  Mrs. 
Penn. 

"  Room  enough,"  returned  the  hired  man,  in  his 
thick,  rustic  tones.  "  Didn't  need  the  new  barn,  no- 
how, far  as  room's  concerned." 

Mrs.  Penn  went  back  to  the  house. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  a  regular  dinner  to-day,  as 
long  as  father's  gone,"  she  said  to  Nanny,  as  Sammy 
came  in  to  see  if  dinner  was  ready.  "  Fve  let  the  fire 
go  out.  You  can  have  some  bread  an'  milk  an'  pie. 
I  thought  we  could  get  along."  She  set  out  some 
bowls  of  milk,  some  bread,  and  a  pie  on  the  kitchen 
table.  "  You'd  better  eat  your  dinner  now,"  said  she. 
"  You  might  jest  as  well  get  through  with  it.  I  want 
you  to  help  me  afterward." 

Nanny  and  Sammy  stared  at  each  other.  There 
was  something  strange  in  their  mother's  manner. 
Mrs.  Penn  did  not  eat  anything  herself.  She  went 
into  the  pantry,  and  they  heard  her  moving  dishes 
while  they  ate.     Presently  she  came  out  with  a  pile  of 


THE   REVOLT   OF   "  MOTHER  35 

plates.  She  got  the  clothes-basket  out  of  the  shed, 
and  packed  them  in  it.  Nanny  and  Sammy  watched. 
She  brought  out  cups  and  saucers,  and  put  them  in 
with  the  plates. 

"  What  you  goin'  to  do,  mother?  "  inquired  Nanny, 
in  a  timid  voice. 

"  You'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,"  replied  Mrs. 
Penn.  ''  If  you're  through,  Nanny,  I  want  you  to  go 
up-stairs  an'  pack  up  your  things;  an'  I  want  you, 
Sammy,  to  help  me  take  down  the  bed  in  the  bed- 
room." 

"  Oh,  mother,  wdiat  for?  "  gasped  Nanny. 

''  You'll  see." 

During  the  next  few  hours  a  feat  was  performed  by 
this  simple,  pious  New  England  mother  which  was 
equal  in  its  way  to  Wolfe's  storming  of  the  Heights  of 
Abraham.  It  took  no  more  genius  and  audacity  of 
bravery  for  Wolfe  to  cheer  his  wondering  soldiers  up 
those  steep  precipices,  under  the  sleeping  eyes  of  the 
enemy,  than  for  Sarah  Penn,  at  the  head  of  her  chil- 
dren, to  move  all  their  little  household  goods  into  the 
new  barn  while  her  husband  was  away. 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  little  house  in 
which  the  Penns  had  lived  for  forty  years  had  emptied 
itself  into  the  new  barn.  At  six  o'clock  the  stove  was 
up  in  the  harness-room,  the  kettle  was  boiling,  and 
the  table  set  for  tea. 

Toward  sunset  on  Saturday,  when  Adoniram  was 
expected  home,  there  was  a  knot  of  men  in  the  road 
»ear  the  new  barn.  The  hired  man  had  milked,  but 
ne  still  hvvsr  a.'ound  the  premises.     Sarah  Penn  had 


.  3^  xJRAMATlC   NARRATIVE 

supper  all  ready.  There  were  brown-bread  and  baked 
beans  and  a  custard  pie;  it  was  the  supper  that  Adoni- 
ram  loved  on  a  Saturday  night.  She  had  on  a  clean 
calico,  and  she  bore  herself  imperturbably.  Nanny  and 
Sammy  kept  close  at  her  heels.  Their  eyes  were  large, 
and  Nanny  was  full  of  nervous  tremors.  Still  there 
was  to  them  more  pleasant  excitement  than  anything 
else.  An  inborn  confidence  in  their  mother  over  their 
father  asserted  itself. 

Sammy  looked  out  of  the  harness-room  window. 
"  There  he  is,"  he  announced,  in  an  awed  whisper.  He 
and  Nanny  peeped  around  the  casing.  Mrs.  Penn  kept 
on  about  her  work.  The  children  watched  Adoniram 
leave  the  new  horse  standing  in  the  drive  while  he 
went  to  the  house  door.  It  was  fastened.  Then  he 
went  around  to  the  shed.  That  door  was  seldom 
locked,  even  when  the  family  was  away.  The  thought 
how  her  father  would  be  confronted  by  the  cow  flashed 
upon  Nanny.  There  was  a  hysterical  sob  in  her  throat. 
Adoniram  emerged  from  the  shed  and  stood  looking 
about  in  a  dazed  fashion.  His  lips  moved;  he  w^as 
saying  something,  but  they  could  not  hear  what  it  was. 
The  hired  man  was  peeping  around  a  corner  of  the 
old  barn,  but  nobody  saw  him. 

Adoniram  took  the  new  horse  by  the  bridle  and  led 
him  across  the  yard  to  the  new  barn.  Nanny  and 
Sammy  slunk  close  to  their  mother.  The  barn  doors 
rolled  back,  and  there  stood  Adoniram,  with  the  long 
mild  face  of  the  great  Canadian  farm  horse  looking 
over  his  shoulder. 

Nanny  kept  behind  her  mother,  but  Sammy  stepped 
suddenlv  forward,  and  stood  in  front  of  her- 


THE    REVOLT   OF   "  MOTHER  "  37 

Adoniram  stared  at  the  group.  What  on  airth  you 
all  down  here  for?  "  said  he.  "  What's  the  matter  over 
to  the  house?  " 

"  We've  come  here  to  live,  father,"  said  Sammy, 
His  shrill  voice  quavered  out  bravely. 

"  What  " — Adoniram  sniffed — "  what  is  it  smells 
like  cookin'?"  said  he.  He  stepped  forward  and 
looked  in  the  open  door  of  the  harness-room.  Then 
he  turned  to  his  wife.  His  old  bristling  face  was  pale 
and  frightened.  "  What  on  airth  does  this  mean, 
mother?  "  he  gasped. 

"  You  come  in  here,  father,"  said  Sarah.  She  led 
the  way  into  the  harness-room  and  shut  the  door. 
"  Now,  father,"  said  she,  "  you  needn't  be  scared.  I 
ain't  crazy.  There  ain't  nothin'  to  be  upset  over.  But 
we've  come  here  to  live,  an'  we're  goin'  to  live  here. 
We've  got  jest  as  good  a  right  here  as  new  horses  an' 
cows.  The  house  wa'n't  fit  for  us  to  live  in  any  longer, 
an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  stay  there. 
I've  done  my  duty  by  you  forty  year,  an'  I'm  goin' 
to  do  it  now;  but  I'm  goin'  to  live  here.  You've  got 
to  put  in  some  windows  and  partitions;  an'  you'll  have 
to  buy  some  furniture." 

"  Why,  mother !  "  the  old  man  gasped. 

"  You'd  better  take  your  coat  off  an'  get  washed — 
there's  the  wash-basin — an'  then  we'll  have  supper." 

Adoniram  tried  to  take  off  his  coat,  but  his  arms 
seemed  to  lack  the  power.  His  wife  helped  him.  She 
poured  some  water  into  the  tin  basin,  and  put  in  a 
piece  of  soap.  She  got  the  comb  and  brush,  and 
smoothed  his  thin  gray  hair  after  he  had  washed. 
Then  she  put  the  beans,  hot  bread,  and  tea  on  the 


38  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

table.  Sammy  came  in,  and  the  family  drew  up. 
Adoniram  sat  looking  dazedly  at  his  plate,  and  they 
waited. 

"  Ain't  you  goin'  to  ask  a  blessin',  father?  "  said 
Sarah. 

And  the  old  man  bent  his  head  and  mumbled. 

After  supper  he  went  out,  and  sat  down  on  the  step 
of  the  smaller  door  at  the  right  of  the  barn,  through 
which  he  had  meant  his  Jerseys  to  pass  in  stately  file, 
but  which  Sarah  designed  for  her  front  house  door, 
and  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands. 

After  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared  away  and  the 
milk-pans  washed,  Sarah  went  out  to  him.  The  twi- 
light was  deepening.  There  was  a  clear  green  glow 
in  the  sky.  Before  them  stretched  the  smooth  level 
of  field;  in  the  distance  was  a  cluster  of  hay-stacks 
like  the  huts  of  a  village;  the  air  was  very  cool  and 
calm  and  sweet.  The  landscape  might  have  been  an 
ideal  one  of  peace. 

Sarah  bent  over  and  touched  her  husband  on  one 
of  his  thin,  sinewy  shoulders.    "  Father !  " 

The  old  man's  shoulders  heaved :   he  was  weeping. 

"  Why,  don't  do  so,  father,"  said  Sarah. 

"  I'll — put  up  the — partitions,  an' — everything  you 
— want,  mother." 

Sarah  put  her  apron  up  to  her  face;  she  was  over- 
come by  her  own  triumph. 

Adoniram  was  like  a  fortress  whose  walls  had  no 
active  resistance,  and  went  down  the  instant  the  right 
besieging  tools  were  used.  "  Why,  mother,"  he  said, 
hoarsely,  "  I  hadn't  no  idee  you  was  so  set  on't  as  all 
this  comes  to." 


A   SECOND   TRIAL 

SARAH    WINTER    KELLOGG 

It  was  Commencement  at  one  of  our  colleges.  The 
people  were  pouring  into  the  church  as  I  entered  it, 
rather  tardy.  Finding  the  choice  seats  in  the  centre 
of  the  audience-room  already  taken,  I  pressed  for- 
ward, looking  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  for  a  vacancy. 
On  the  very  front  row  of  seats  I  found  one. 

Here  a  little  girl  moved  along  to  make  room  for 
me,  looking  into  my  face  with  large  gray  eyes,  whose 
brightness  was  softened  by  very  long  lashes.  Her  face 
was  open  and  fresh  as  a  newly  blown  rose  before  sun- 
rise. Again  and  again  I  found  my  eyes  turning  to 
the  rose-like  face,  and  each  time  the  gray  eyes  moved, 
half-smiling,  to  meet  mine.  Evidently  the  child  was 
ready  to  "  make  up  "  with  me.  And  when,  with  a 
bright  smile,  she  returned  my  dropped  handkerchief, 
and  I  said  "  Thank  you  !  "  we  seemed  fairly  introduced. 
Other  persons,  now  coming  into  the  seat,  crowded  me 
quite  close  up  against  the  little  girl,  so  that  we  soon 
felt  very  well  acquainted. 

"  There's  going  to  be  a  great  crowd,"  she  said  to 
me. 

"Yes,"  I  replied;  "people  always  like  to  see  how 
school-boys  are  made  into  men." 

Her  face  beamed  with  pleasure  and  pride  as  she  said : 

39 


40  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"My  brother's  going  to  graduate;  he's  going  to 
speak;   I've  brought  these  flowers  to  throw  to  him." 

They  were  not  greenhouse  favorites;  just  old-fash- 
ioned domestic  flowers,  such  as  we  associate  with  the 
dear  grandmothers;  "  but,"  I  thought,  "  they  will  seem 
sweet  and  beautiful  to  him  for  little  sister's  sake." 

"  That  is  my  brother,"  she  went  on,  pointing  with 
her  nosegay. 

"  The  one  with  the  light  hair?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  said,  smiling  and  shaking  her  head 
in  innocent  reproof;  "  not  that  homely  one;  that  hand- 
some one  with  brown  wavy  hair.  His  eyes  look  brown, 
too;  but  they  are  not — they  are  dark-blue.  There! 
he's  got  his  hand  up  to  his  head  now.  You  see  him, 
don't  you?  " 

In  an  eager  way  she  looked  from  me  to  him,  and 
from  him  to  me,  as  if  some  important  fate  depended 
upon  my  identifying  her  brother. 

"  I  see  him/'  I  said.  "  He's  a  very  good-looking 
brother." 

"  Yes,  he  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  with  artless  delight; 
"  and  he's  so  good,  and  he  studies  so  hard.  He  has 
taken  care  of  me  ever  since  mamma  died.  Here  is 
his  name  on  the  programme.  He  is  not  the  valedic- 
torian, but  he  has  an  honor,  for  all  that." 

I  saw  in  the  little  creature's  familiarity  with  these 
technical  college  terms  that  she  had  closely  identified 
herself  with  her  brother's  studies,  hopes,  and  successes. 

"  His  oration  is  a  real  good  one,  and  he  says  it  beau- 
tifully. He  has  said  it  to  me  a  great  many  times.  I 
'most  know  it  by  heart.  Oh !  it  begins  so  pretty  and 
so  grand.    This  is  the  way  it  begins,"  she  added,  en- 


A    SECOND     IKIAL,  ifi 

couraged  by  the  interest  she  must  have  seen  in  my 
face:  "'Amid  the  permutations  and  combinations  of 
the  actors  and  the  forces  which  make  up  the  great 
kaleidoscope  of  history,  we  often  find  that  a  turn  of 
Destiny's  hand '  " 

"  Why,  bless  the  baby !  "  I  thought,  looking  down 
into  her  bright,  proud  face.  1  can't  describe  how  very 
odd  and  elfish  it  did  seem  to  have  those  big  words 
rolling  out  of  the  smiling  childish  mouth. 

As  the  exercises  progressed,  and  approached  nearer 
and  nearer  the  effort  on  which  all  her  interest  was  con- 
centrated, my  little  friend  became  excited  and  restless. 
Her  eyes  grew  larger  and  brighter,  two  deep-red  spots 
glowed  on  her  cheeks. 

"  Now,  it's  his  turn,"  she  said,  turning  to  me  a  face 
in  which  pride  and  delight  and  anxiety  seemed  about 
equally  mingled.  But  when  the  overture  was  played 
through,  and  his  name  was  called,  the  child  seemed,  in 
her  eagerness,  to  forget  me  and  all  the  earth  beside  him. 
She  rose  to  her  feet  and  leaned  forward  for  a  better 
view  of  her  beloved,  as  he  mounted  to  the  speaker's 
stand.  I  knew  by  her  deep  breathing  that  her  heart 
was  throbbing  in  her  throat.  I  knew,  too,  by  the 
way  her  brother  came  up  the  steps  and  to  the  front 
that  he  was  trembling.  The  hands  hung  limp;  his 
face  was  pallid,  and  the  lips  blue  as  w4th  cold.  I  felt 
anxious.  The  child,  too,  seemed  to  discern  that  things 
were  not  well  with  him.  Something  like  fear  showed 
in  her  face. 

He  made  an  automatic  bow.  Then  a  bewildered, 
struggling  look  came  into  his  face,  then  a  helpless 
look,  and  then  he  stood  staring  vacantly,  like  a  som- 


42  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

nambulist,  at  the  waiting  audience.  The  moments  of 
painful  suspense  went  by,  and  still  he  stood  as  if  struck 
dumb.  I  saw  how  it  was;  he  had  been  seized  with 
stage-fright. 

Alas!  little  sister!  She  turned  her  large,  dismayed 
eyes  upon  me.  "  He's  forgotten  it,"  she  said.  Then 
a  swift  change  came  into  her  face;  a  strong,  deter- 
mined look;  and  on  the  funeral-like  silence  of  the  room 
broke  the  sweet,  brave  child-voice : 

"'Amid  the  permutations  and  combinations  of  the 
actors  and  the  forces  which  make  up  the  great  kaleido- 
scope of  history,  w^e  often  find  that  a  turn  of  Destiny's 
hand '  " 

Everybody  about  us  turned  and  looked.  The  breath- 
less silence;  the  sweet,  childish  voice;  the  childish 
face;  the  long,  unchildlike  words,  produced  a  weird 
effect. 

But  the  help  had  come  too  late;  the  unhappy 
brother  was  already  staggering  in  humiliation  from  the 
stage.  The  band  quickly  struck  up,  and  waves  of  lively 
music  rolled  out  to  cover  the  defeat. 

I  gave  the  little  sister  a  glance  in  which  I  meant  to 
show  the  intense  sympathy  I  felt;  but  she  did  not 
see  me.  Her  eyes,  swimming  with  tears,  were  on  her 
brother's  face.  I  put  my  arm  around  her,  but  she  was 
too  absorbed  to  heed  the  caress,  and  before  I  could 
appreciate  her  purpose,  she  was  on  her  way  to  the 
shame-stricken  young  man  sitting  with  a  face  like  a 
statue's. 

When  he  saw  her  bv  his  side  the  set  face  relaxed, 
and  a  quick  mist  came  into  his  eyes.  The  young  men 
got  closer  together  to  make  room  for  her.     She  sat 


A  SECOND   TRIAL  43 

down  beside  him,  laid  her  flowers  on  his  knee,  and 
flipped  her  hand  in  his. 

I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  from  her  sweet,  pitying 
face.  I  saw  her  whisper  to  him,  he  bending  a  li*"tle 
to  catch  her  words.  Later,  I  found  out  that  she  was 
asking  him  if  he  knew  his  "  piece  "  now,  and  that  he 
answered  yes. 

When  the  young  man  next  on  the  list  had  spoken, 
and  while  the  band  was  playing,  the  child,  to  the 
brother's  great  surprise,  made  her  way  up  the  stage 
steps,  and  pressed  through  the  throng  of  professors 
and  trustees  and  distinguished  visitors,  up  to  the  col- 
lege president. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  she  said  with  a  little  courtesy, 
"will  you  and  the  trustees  let  my  brother  try  again? 
He  knows  his  piece  now." 

For  a  moment  the  president  stared  at  her  through 
his  gold-bowed  spectacles,  and  then,  appreciating-  the 
child's  petition,  he  smiled  on  her,  and  went  down  an(i 
spoke  to  the  young  man  who  had  failed. 

So  it  happened  that  when  the  band  had  again  ceased 

playing,  it  was  briefly  announced  that  Mr. 

would  now  deliver  his  oration — "  Historical  Parallels." 

A  ripple  of  heightened  and  expectant  interest  passed 
over  the  audience,  and  then  all  sat  stone  still,  as 
though  fearing  to  breathe  lest  the  speaker  might  again 
take  fright.  No  danger !  The  hero  in  the  youth  was 
aroused.  He  went  at  his  "  piece  "  with  a  set  purpose 
to  conquer,  to  redeem  himself,  and  to  bring  the  smile 
back  into  the  child's  tear-stained  face.  I  watched  the 
face  during  the  speaking.  The  wide  eyes,  the  parted 
lips,  the  whole  rapt  being  said  that  the  breathless  audi- 


44  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

ence  was  forgotten,  that  her  spirit  was  moving  with 
his. 

And  when  the  address  Was  ended  with  the  ardent 
abandon  of  one  who  catches  enthusiasm  in  the  reahza- 
tion  that  he  is  fighting  down  a  wrong  judgment  and 
conquering  a  sympathy,  the  effect  was  really  thrilling. 
That  dignified  audience  broke  into  rapturous  applause; 
bouquets  intended  for  the  valedictorian  rained  like  a 
tempest.  And  the  child,  the  child  who  had  helped  to 
save  the  day — that  one  beaming  little  face,  in  its  pride 
and  gladness,  is  something  to  be  forever  remembered. 


HOW  THE   DERBY  WAS   WON 

HARRISON    ROBERTSON 

It  was  natural  that  when  Gid  Bronxon  reahzed  he 
had  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  he  should  turn  to 
horses,  even  though  he  was  well  aware  that  horses 
had  been  the  ruin  of  his  father.  Gid  liked  horses  bet- 
ter than  anything  else  in  the  world,  except  Jean  Heath. 
He  may  have  inherited  his  fondness  for  horses  from 
his  father,  but  he  had  acquired  his  information  con- 
cerning them  from  other  sources;  for  he  had  been 
quick  to  see  that  his  father  was  one  of  those  men, 
by  no  means  rare  in  Kentucky,  whose  interest  in  the 
race-horse  is  far  in  excess  of  their  ability  to  form  an 
intelligent  opinion  as  to  his  qualities,  and  who  are 
almost  invariably  greater  losers  in  purse  than  they  are 
gainers  by  experience. 

Such,  at  least,  had  been  the  case  with  the  elder 
Bronxon.  His  farm,  once  a  valuable  one,  had  dimin- 
ished as  his  tendency  to  "  back  his  opinion  "  increased, 
until,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  a  few  weeks  after  his 
son's  return  from  school,  all  that  was  left  was  the 
house,  then  decidedly  ramshackle,  and  about  forty 
acres  of  land;  which  would  also  have  probably  slipped 
out  of  his  hands  if  he  had  lived  to  make  one  or  two 
more  trips  to  the  annual  spring  and  fall  "  meetings  " 
at  Louisville  and  Lexington. 

45 


46  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

The  Bronxon  place  adjoined  the  Heath  place,  which 
was  a  stock  farm,  though  not  as  large  nor  as  widely 
known  as  many  similar  farms  in  Kentucky.  It  was 
probably  due  to  this  proximity  to  Major  Heath's  that 
Gid's  father  became  so  much  interested  in  the  thor- 
oughbred; and  without  doubt  this  circumstance  of 
his  residence  was  largely  responsible  for  the  early  bent 
of  Gid's  own  youthful  tastes,  for  he  and  Tom  Heath 
were  inseparable  playfellows  as  boys,  and  while  Tom 
lived  there  was  never  a  colt  on  his  father's  farm  whicii 
did  not  know  the  twain,  and  which  was  not  better 
known  by  them. 

After  Tom's  death,  however,  Gid  was  very  rarely  at 
the  Heaths'.  He  went  off  to  school  about  that  time, 
and  during  his  vacations  at  home  he  seldom  saw  the 
Major  or  the  Major's  daughter,  except  at  some  chance 
meeting  on  the  public  roads,  or  on  Sundays  at  the 
little  neighborhood  church,  which  Gid  attended  regu- 
larly all  through  those  vacations.  For  Jean  Heath 
was  no  longer  in  his  eyes  merely  Tom's  little  hoiden 
sister.  She  had  budded  into  a  young  womanhood 
which  awed  while  it  charmed  him,  and  which  made  her 
seem  as  far  above  him  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
hold  himself  above  her  when  she  was  merely  Tom's 
httle  hoiden  sister. 

On  his  final  return  from  college,  however,  he  had 
outgrown,  in  some  degree,  his  diffidence,  although  his 
admiration  for  her  who  had  inspired  it  was  stronger 
than  ever.  And  if  he  was  yet  disinclined  to  seek  ad- 
vancement in  her  favor  by  any  means  more  positive 
than  he   had   formerly  employed,  he  soon  saw  that 


HOW   THE  DERBY   WAS  WON  47 

ethers  were  more  aggressive,  and  this  spurred  him  to 
the  necessity  of  making  some  demonstration  in  his 
own  behalf.  And  so  one  day  about  this  time,  when 
Major  Heath  suggested  that  a  young  fellow  with  as 
much  "  horse  sense  "  as  Gid  ought  to  be  his  chief  lieu- 
tenant, Gid  replied,  in  the  flush  of  the  moment,  that 
he  agreed  with  the  Major  entirely  on  that  point,  and 
before  the  two  parted  it  was  settled  between  them  that 
the  younger  man  was  to  relieve  the  older  one  of  the 
duties  of  the  active  management  of  the  Heath  farm. 

It  would  be  an  injustice  to  him  to  infer  that  he 
accepted  the  Major's  proposition  with  any  idea  of  ad- 
vancing himself  in  the  graces  of  the  Major's  daughter. 
The  truth  is,  that  while  he  had  determined  that  he 
would  exert  no  effort  to  inspire  a  reciprocation  of  his 
love  for  Jean  Heath  until  his  worldly  prospects  should 
better  warrant  such  presumption,  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation,  which  her  father's  proposition  held 
out  to  him,  of  her  presence — of  hearing  the  cheeriness 
of  her  voice,  and  looking  upon  the  sunshine  of  her  hair 
and  the  shadows  of  her  eyes. 

But  he  was  far  from  being  pleased  with  life  at  the 
Major's.  Not  that  his  work  was  any  less  to  his  taste 
than  he  had  anticipated,  or  that  he  could  have  given 
any  definite  reason  for  his  disappointment.  But  rea- 
son there  was,  he  felt  rather  than  knew;  and,  more- 
over, felt  that  it  was  connected  in  some  way  with  Jean 
Heath.  He  was  conscious  of  a  subtle  change  in  her 
manner  toward  him  from  the  first  day  on  which  he 
began  his  new  duties.  He  knew  no  explanation  for 
this  altered  demeanor;  at  first  he  could  think  of  none; 


48  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

and  when,  after  much  gloomy  speculation,  he  stumbled 
on  one,  he  stumbled  on  it  with  the  fatuity  of  a  man 
in  love,  and  of  course  it  was  a  wrong  one. 

It  was  not  an  explanation  which  tended  to  make 
him  less  dissatisfied  with  himself.  On  the  contrary, 
it  added  to  his  discomfort  and  unhappiness;  for  it 
was  based  on  the  assumption  that  Jean  had  interpreted 
his  coming  to  her  home  as  an  open  manifestation  of 
a  purpose  to  ingratiate  himself  with  her,  and  that  she 
regarded  it  with  disapproval,  if  not  with  suspicion. 

His  inference  that  she  had  discovered,  and  sought 
to  rebuke  his  passion  was  further  strengthened  by  her 
graciousness  to  other  men,  and  especially  to  Casey 
Pallam,  a  handsome  young  Tennesseean,  who,  having 
recently  come  into  his  fortune,  was  bent  upon  indulg- 
ing m  a  racing  stable.  It  was  ostensibly  to  collect 
such  a  stable  that  he  was  in  Kentucky,  although  Gid 
Bronxon  was  perfectly  sure  that  this  did  not  require 
his  remaining  in  the  Bluegrass  so  long,  or  spending 
so  much  of  his  time  at  the  Major's,  whose  sale  of  thor- 
oughbreds, as  every  one  knows,  took  place  annually, 
and  in  public,  on  a  day  duly  advertised. 

Once  satisfied  that  his  presence  was  distasteful  to 
Jean  Heath,  there  was,  of  course,  but  one  thing  for  Gid 
to  do,  and  he  was  prompt  in  doing  it.  Frankly  telling 
the  Major  that  he  wished  to  be  released  from  their 
agreement,  the  latter,  although  not  pretending  to  un- 
derstand the  motive  of  the  request,  at  once  assented 
to  it;  and  Gid  went  to  his  room  and  made  his  prepara- 
tions for  leaving.  These  completed,  he  returned  down- 
stairs, intending  to  send  back  for  his  things;    and  aa 


HOW    THE   DEKBV   WAS   WON  49 

he  stepped  from  the  house  Jean  Heath  was  on  the 
lawn. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Jean,"  he  called  out,  lightly,  as  he 
walked  on  toward  the  gate. 

"Good-by?  Why,  where  are  you  goin'?"  she 
asked,  turning  to  him  in  surprise. 

"  Over  home,"  he  answered,  pausing  and  facing  her. 
"  The  Major  and  I  have  agreed  to  quit,"  with  a  mod- 
erately successful  attempt  at  a  smile. 

"You — you  haven't  quarrelled,  have  you?"  with  a 
suspicion  of  something  in  her  manner  that  might  have 
suggested  trepidation  to  her  auditor  if  he  had  been 
in  a  frame  of  mind  to  entertain  a  distinct  consciousness 
of  anything  of  less  significance  than  that  he  was  going 
away,  and  that  he  was  leaving  all  his  hopes  behind  him. 

"No;  we  haven't  quarrelled,"  he  replied.  "Of 
course  not.  I  simply  asked  him  to  release  me,  and 
he  kindly  did  so." 

"  I'm  glad  you're  goin*.  I  mean  I'm  glad  that — that 
you're  goin'  to  do  somethin'  else." 

But  whatever  her  meaning  might  have  been,  Gid 
was  incapable,  just  then,  of  construing  it  except  liter- 
ally. Her  words  stung  him  into  a  desperation  which 
broke  into  such  expression  as  he  would  have  shrunk 
from  a  minute  before. 

"  I  know  it!  "  he  said.  "  I  know  you're  glad;  you 
need  not  take  the  trouble  to  tell  me.  I'm  too  well 
aware  that  my  love  for  you  annoys  you;  but  I  did 
not  intend  to  speak  to  you  of  it  or  to " 

"  I  hope  you  didn't,  as  long  as  you  were  satisfied  to 
— to  be — my  father's  servant !  "  she  interrupted,  with 
a  vehetpenre  that  to  Gid  was  inexplicable. 


50  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

It  was  a  brutal  thing  to  say,  and  he  did  not  feel 
this  more  acutely  than  she,  as  soon  as  it  was  said; 
but  its  brutality  would  not  have  been  without  avail  if 
it  had  disclosed  to  him,  as  it  might  have  done,  the  true 
cause  of  this  spirited  girl's  recent  coldness  to  him. 

"  Oh!   I  don't  mean — I  don't  mean " 

But  her  distress  was  unheeded,  perhaps  unheard;  for 
he  had  wheeled  and  was  walking  rapidly  away.  She 
let  her  pruning-shears  fall  unnoted  to  the  ground  as 
she  stood  mutely  looking  after  him,  and  as  he  disap- 
peared through  the  gate  she  covered  her  face  for  an 
instant  with  her  hands  and  then  ran,  as  if  in  fright,  into 
the  house. 

Meanwhile  Gid  stalked  on  homeward,  not  turning 
his  head  to  one  side  or  the  other,  except  once  to  glare 
stolidly  at  the  handsome  roadsters  of  Casey  Pallam 
as  he  rattled  by  toward  the  Major's. 

Two  w^eeks  later  the  annual  sale  of  the  Major's  year- 
lings took  place.  Gid  had  determined,  within  the  fort- 
night intervening  between  his  departure  from  the 
Major's  and  the  sale,  that  he  would  go  into  business 
for  himself,  and  business  with  him,  as  has  been  noted 
already,  meant  horses.  Concerning  one  thing  he  had 
made  up  his  mind :  he  would  regain,  if  possible,  by 
his  own  efforts,  the  estate  which  his  father  had  squan- 
dered. His  desire  to  do  this  was  impatiently  strong 
since  that  galling  taunt  of  Jean  Heath's,  and  although 
he  told  himself  that  henceforth  Jean  Heath  was  as  dead 
to  him  as  poor  Tom  Heath  himself,  yet  he  knew  that 
his  greatest  incentive  to  the  recuperation  of  his  fort- 
unes was  his  wish  that  she  should  see,  and  be  com- 
pelled to  acknowledge,  his  prosperity. 


HOW   THE   DERBY    WAS   WON  5 1 

He  procured  fifteen  hundred  dollars  by  mortgaging 
his  little  farm,  and  this  he  authorized  Bob  Ozley,  his 
representative,  to  invest  in  young  thoroughbreds  at 
the  sale, 

"  Couldn't  do  much  for  you,  Gid,"  Ozley  reported. 
"  But  I  bid  in  three  youngsters,  though  they  were  not 
the  ones  you  wanted  most.  Your  first  choices  brought 
higher  figures  than  our  pile  would  reach." 

"  Yes,  I  expected  that." 

"  But  I  got  you  the  Babette  colt  for  seven  hundred, 
and  the  Paquita  filly  for  five-fifty.  They're  good,  for 
the  money,  I  think.  Then  I  had  no  trouble  about  that 
two-year-old  Brunhilde  colt.  Nobody  seemed  to  want 
him,  and  pretty  much  everybody  laughed  when  he  was 
knocked  down  to  me  for  one  hundred  and  sixty  dol- 
lars. What  do  you  want  with  the  ugly  beast,  any- 
way? " 

Gid  smiled.  "  He  isn't  a  beauty;  but  I  have  an  idea 
that  there  is  some  outcome  in  him  if  his  villanous  tem- 
per can  be  cured." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  care  to  have  him  on  my  hands, 
even  at  the  price.  Why  wasn't  he  sold  twelve  months 
ago  as  a  yearling?     Nobody  wanted  him?  " 

"  That  was  it,"  Gid  smiled.  "  If  you  call  him  ugly 
now,  you  ought  to  have  seen  him  as  a  yearling.  I 
remember  very  well  no  one  would  make  a  bid  for  him 
then,  and  he  and  the  Alsatia  colt,  who  was  sick  and 
was  not  ofTered,  were  the  only  two  in  last  year's  cata- 
logue that  were  not  sold." 

"Ah!  that  Alsatia  colt  is  a  jewel;  brought  the  top 
price  to-day,  too." 

"  He  ought  to  have  done  so.     Who  got  him?  " 


52  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  Casey  Pallam.  All  the  high-rollers  were  after  him, 
but  Pallam  outlasted  them  and  bid  him  in  for  eight 
thousand  and  five  hundred." 

"  He's  worth  it,  in  my  opinion,"  Gid  answered. 
"  Major  Heath  thinks  him  the  finest  colt  he  ever  bred." 

"  Maybe  he  won't  have  such  smooth  sailing,  after 
all,  if  you  start  your  Brunhilde  wonder  against  him," 
Ozley  suggested,  with  a  grin. 

"  Never  mind  about  my  Brunhilde  wonder.  He 
won't  have  to  run  against  Alsatia  colts  often,  I  reckon. 
Besides,  I  don't  expect  to  start  him  until  he  is  three 
years  old.    It  will  take  a  year  to  civilize  him." 

At  the  opening  of  the  following  spring  Gid  was 
forced  to  admit  that  his  hopes  of  success  in  his  new 
business  depended  on  this  ill-favored  colt.  His  Pa- 
quita  filly  had  died,  and  his  Babette  colt  had  gone  lame. 
Unless,  therefore,  the  Brunhilde  colt  should  prove 
better  than  the  general  estimate  of  him,  Gid  realized 
that  he  had  not  only  failed  at  the  very  outset  of  his  un- 
dertaking, but  that  he  had  lost  in  the  venture  what 
little  property  his  father  had  left  him. 

He  was  not  at  all  sanguine  about  the  colt,  which  was 
as  surly  and  vicious  a  brute  as  ever  rebelled  against 
bit  or  saddle,  and  which  looked  more  like  a  camel  than 
a  race-horse.  It  was  in  a  moment  of  disgust  at  these 
characteristics  of  the  colt  that  Gid  bestowed  upon  him 
the  name  of  Yaboo,  the  designation  by  which  the  Per- 
sians contemptuously  distinguish  their  native  drudge 
horses  from  their  highly  prized  Turcomans  and  Ara- 
bians. 

He  had  placed  Yaboo  in  the  hands  of  Uncle  Lije 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  53 

Heath,  to  whom  the  Major,  his  old  master,  had  given 
a  strip  of  ground,  and  who  followed  the  honored  and 
responsible  calling  of  a  public  trainer. 

As  the  winter  broke  and  the  mild  weather  gave 
Uncle  Lije  an  opportunity  to  put  the  colt  into  active 
training,  the  old  man  began  to  make  more  encourag- 
ing reports  concerning  his  charge.  "  He  des  ez  mean 
ez  ever,  Mr.  Gid — en  da's  de  meanis  I  ever  come  acrost 
yit.  He  doin'  a  leetle  better  dough  now,  sence  Alec 
Saffel  commenced  wukin  wid  him.  Somehow'  he 
sorter  takes  to  Alec  mo'n  to  anybody  else,  cepn — cepn 
— I  mean  Alec's  de  onles  boy  he'll  let  ride  him  to  do 
any  good ;  en  dis  mawnin  Alec  he  wuked  him  a  mile  in 
'49,  en  dat  ain't  so  bad  fer  a  hawse  ez  high  in  flesh  ez 
Yaboo  is  yit." 

It  w^as  Gid's  intention  to  start  Yaboo  in  the  Ken- 
tucky Derby,  the  great  race  of  the  South  and  West  for 
three-year-olds.  As  the  time  approached  for  the  race 
Gid  began  to  feel  that  there  might  be  just  a  chance,  if 
Yaboo  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  run  kindly.  Of 
course,  nothing  in  the  race  could  expect  to  contest  it 
with  Huguenot,  if  Huguenot  came  to  the  post  in  good 
condition.  Huguenot — who  was  the  Alsatia  colt 
Casey  Pallam  had  bought  at  the  Major's  sale — had 
proved  the  best  of  the  preceding  season's  two-year- 
olds,  winning  nine  successive  stakes,  and  retiring  into 
winter  quarters  with  an  unbeaten  record.  It  was  gen- 
erally conceded,  and  by  none  more  freely  than  by  Gid, 
that  if  the  colt  did  not  go  amiss  he  would  also  have  the 
principal  three-year-old  stakes  at  his  mercy.  But  the 
uncertainties  of  spring  racing  led  Gid  to  decide  that  if 
anything  should  happen  to  prevent  what  seemed  the 


54  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

inevitable  victory  of  Huguenot  in  the  Derby,  Yaboo 
should,  if  possible,  be  ready  to  compete  for  the  prize. 

Meanwhile,  during  the  year  which  had  elapsed  since 
his  departure  from  the  Major's  he  had  not  seen  Jean 
Heath,  except  at  a  distance — across  the  pews  at  church, 
perhaps,  or  dashing  over  the  country  with  her  father  or 
friends;  for  she  was  a  reckless  and  adept  horsewoman. 

About  two  weeks  before  the  date  fixed  for  the  Derby 
Gid  rode  over  to  Uncle  Lije's  to  look  at  Yaboo,  and 
just  before  reaching  the  gate  into  the  old  trainer's  do- 
main he  saw  two  female  figures  on  horseback  ride 
through  it  and  gallop  off  down  the  road.  One  of 
them  he  recognized  as  Jean;  but  the  fact  that  she  had 
visited  Uncle  Lije  or  Aunt  Polly  was  in  no  way  sur- 
prising to  him,  for  he  knew  that  these  two  worthies, 
who  considered  themselves  members  in  good  standing 
of  the  Heath  family,  enjoyed  the  special  favor  of  the 
Major  and  his  daughter. 

As  the  two  figures  on  horseback  disappeared  behind 
a  green  swell  of  the  undulating  meadow  Gid  rode 
around  to  the  stables,  where  he  found  Uncle  Lije  in 
the  act  of  removing  a  side-saddle  from  the  back  of  Ya- 
boo. The  old  trainer  cast  a  somewhat  apprehensive 
glance  at  Gid,  and  hastened  to  say : 

"  He's  comin'on,  Mr.  Gid,  he's  comin'  on;  wuked  a 
mile  dis  mawnin'  wid  his  shoes  on  in  '47.  De  ole  Bon- 
nie Scotlan'  blood  begins  to  warm  up.  I  tell  you !  Ef 
he  keeps  on  disaway  dey'll  hear  fum  us  in  dat  Derby 
yit,  en  Huguenot  he  gotter  be  feelin'  lak  hisse'f  ef  he 
wanter  have  a  walk-over." 

"  But  why  have  you  had  that  side-saddle  on  him?" 
Gid  asked. 


HOW   THK   DERBY   WAS    WON  55 

"  Oh,  dat  ain't  gwiner  do  no  harm,"  evasively. 

"  Uncle  Lije,  one  of  those  ladies  who  left  here  a  few 
minutes  ago  has  been  riding  Yaboo !  " 

"  Well,  dat  don't  mek  no  diffunce,"  the  old  negro 
replied,  uneasily.  "  Alec  SafTel  he  was  sick  dis  mawn- 
in',  en  Miss  Jean  she  happen  to  come  by,  en  she  took  it 
into  her  head  she  wanter  breeze  Yaboo  'roun'  de  track, 
en  long's  Yaboo  need  de  wuk,  en  long's  Miss  Jean  she 
alius  could  do  mo'  wid  dat  hawse  den  any  yuther  livin' 
soul,  not  scusin'  Alec  SafTel  hisse'f,  I  s'posed  I  mought 
ez  well  let  her  have  her  way." 

As  he  thought  of  Jean  Heath  riding  that  fiendish 
brute,  Gid  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  burned  with 
anger  against  Uncle  Lije.  Taking  the  saddle  from  the 
ground,  he  tossed  it  with  some  vehemence  under  the 
shed,  enjoining  Uncle  Lije  that  he  was  never,  upon 
penalty  of  having  the  horse  shot,  to  allow  Miss  Heath 
to  touch  Yaboo  again. 

''Yes,  suh,"  he  answered  in  bewilderment;  "but," 
he  added,  under  his  breath,  as  he  turned  to  throw  a 
blanket  over  Yaboo,  "  Ld  ruther  be  hamstrung  den 
tell  Honey  dat." 

It  was  Derby  day  in  Kentucky.  At  that  time  the 
Kentucky  Derby  was  not  only  the  first  of  the  great  reg- 
ular events  of  the  American  turf,  but  it  was  more  cov- 
eted by  horsemen  than  any  other  prize  of  the  year. 
Five  minutes  after  the  struggle  was  over  the  conqueror 
was  worth  to  his  owner  a  respectable  fortune;  for  in 
addition  to  the  five  or  six  thousand  dollars  which  the 
stake  was  worth,  the  winner  also  usually  won  with  the 
stake  that  which  was  of  far  greater  value,  the  reputa- 


50  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

tion  of  being  the  best  colt  of  his  age  this  side  of 
England. 

By  half-past  two,  when  the  first  race  was  called,  the 
grand-stand  was  thronged;  the  overflowing  crowd 
filled  the  grounds  about  it,  and  the  grass  of  the  field 
was  crushed  and  hidden  from  sight  beneath  the  feet  of 
thousands,  who  stood  in  the  sun,  and  joked  and 
laughed  and  scuffled,  waiting  for  the  running  of  the 
great  race. 

Gid  Bronxon  had  decided  to  start  Yaboo  in  the 
Derby,  although  he  had  no  real  hope  of  beating  Hu- 
guenot, whom  he  knew  to  be  in  excellent  condition. 
But  there  is  always  a  possibility  that  some  accident  may 
befall  the  best  of  horses;  and,  besides,  it  would  be  worth 
something  to  anybody's  colt  to  run  as  well  as  second  to 
Huguenot,  as  Uncle  Lije  had  more  than  once  insisted. 
Young  Bronxon  did  not  begrudge  Huguenot  his  com- 
ing triumph;  he  was  too  genuine  an  admirer  of  fleetness 
and  gameness  in  a  thoroughbred  not  to  admire  at  all 
times  his  triumph  honestly  won.  Nevertheless,  he 
could  not  help  feeling  somewhat  rebellious  against  his 
untoward  fate  that  he  should  be  prevented  from  win- 
ning this  race,  which  would  mean  so  much  to  him,  by 
the  superiority  of  a  horse  whose  owner  was,  of  all  men, 
Casey  Pallam,  the  fortune-favored  young  Tennesseean, 
who,  if  report  was  reliable,  was  no  surer  of  winning 
the  Derby  than  he  was  of  winning  Jean  herself. 

The  first  race  was  a  three-quarter-mile  dash,  with 
nearly  a  score  of  contestants,  whose  coyness  and  fret- 
fulness  at  the  post  were  watched  with  impatience  by 
the  spectators,  who  resented  anything  that  would  defay 
the  principal  race  of  the  day.     A  start  was  at  last  made. 


now    THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  57 

with  every  jockey  fighting  for  the  lead;  and  as  they 
turned  into  the  homestretch  one  of  the  horses  was  seen 
to  fah,  and  immediately  after  another  tumbled  over 
him.  As  the  second  went  down  Gid  Bronxon,  who 
was  watching  the  race  through  a  pair  of  field-glasses, 
uttered  a  slight  exclamation  and  hastened  toward  the 
scene  of  the  accident.  The  two  fallen  horses  were 
quickly  on  their  feet,  none  the  worse  for  their  misad- 
venture, and  one  of  the  jockeys  also  sprang  up,  laugh- 
ingly brushing  the  dust  from  his  gorgeously  colored 
jacket;  but  the  other  rider  lay  where  he  had  been 
thrown,  and  as  Gid  came  up  he  saw  that  the  boy  was, 
as  he  had  thought.  Alec  Saffel.  A  physician,  who  was 
not  hard  to  find  in  the  crowd  which  had  hurried  to  the 
spot,  declared  that  the  little  fellow  had  suffered  no 
injury  more  serious  than  the  dislocation  of  a  shoulder. 
Gid  had  him  taken  to  the  club-house  and  properly 
cared  for;  and  then  walked  out  listlessly  on  the  lawn, 
his  hands  aimlessly  in  his  pockets  and  his  eyes  fixed 
vacuously  on  the  variegated  foliage  of  the  plants  that 
shaped  a  jockey's  cap  and  saddle  at  his  feet.  His  last 
chance  of  winning  the  Derby,  insignificant  as  it  had 
been,  had  gone,  for  young  Saffel's  mishap  would  pre- 
vent him  riding  Yaboo,  and  even  if  another  good 
jockey  could  be  secured  at  that  late  hour,  it  was  ex- 
tremely improbable  that  anyone  unfamiliar  with  the 
horse  would  be  able  to  manage  him. 

Uncle  Lije  came  slowly  forward,  looking  so  lugu- 
brious that  Gid,  who  was  not  wearing  a  very  cheerful 
expression  himself,  could  not  repress  a  smile.  "  Well, 
Mr.  Gid,"  forlornly,  "  luck's  gone  agin  us." 

"  It  seems  so.  Uncle  Lije." 


58  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  I  knowed  sumpn  bad  wus  gwiner  happen  'fo'  night, 
case  I  tied  one  shoe  'fo'  I  put  on  tother  dis  mawnin', 
en  I  ain't  niivver  seed  dat  sign  miss  yit." 

"  Well,  we'll  have  to  withdraw  Yaboo  and  save  him 
for  some  other  day.  Alec  will  be  all  right  before  tl>e 
meeting  is  over,  I  reckon,"  Gid  answered,  with  some 
attempt  at  consolation. 

"  We  gotter  try  fer  de  Derby  anyhow,"  Uncle  Lije 
maintained.  "  Dat  race  wuff  m'o'  to  us  den  all  de  res' 
Yaboo  kin  run  in  de  whole  meetin' — you  know  dat 
widout  me  tellin'  you,  Mr.  Gid.  So  I  done  got  dis  yere 
boy  Whitlock  to  ride  him,  stid  'er  Alec.  We  hatter 
take  our  chances,  Mr.  Gid,  dough  de  Lawd  knows  dey 
mighty  slim  shakes.  Alec  Saffel  de  onles  boy  yit  ever 
could  do  anything  wid  dat  Yaboo." 

Gid  authorized  Uncle  Lije  to  do  whatever  he 
thought  best,  and  then  made  his  way  absently  to  a  seat 
high  up  in  the  grand-stand.  There  he  sat  until  after 
the  second  race,  with  his  head  bared  gratefully  to  the 
breeze,  and  his  eyes  directed  toward  the  misty  billows 
of  the  Indiana  hills.  And  as  he  gazed  at  them  they 
seemed,  as  if  from  a  majestic  amphitheatre,  to  look 
down  with  exalted  indifference  upon  this  paltry  scene 
of  excitement  and  contention  about  him;  and  catching 
something  of  their  spirit  of  philosophical  serenity,  he 
told  himself  that  a  man  was  a  fool  who,  with  no  more 
resources  than  his,  ventured  upon  the  turf  with  the  ex- 
pectation of  keeping  his  head  above  it.  Reaching  this 
sagacious  conclusion,  he  diverted  his  eyes  from  the 
Indiana  hills  to  a  certain  spot  in  the  ladies'  section  of 
the  grand-stand,  where  Jean  Heath  and  her  aunt  were 
•Itting-. 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  59 

This  change  of  view  did  not  result  in  reflections  that 
were  particularly  profitable  or  pleasing,  for  perhaps  the 
most  definite  impressions  which  he  received  were,  that 
the  bonnet  of  Jean's  aunt  was  aggressively  old-fash- 
ioned as  she  sat  among  those  stylish  Louisville  girls, 
and  that  the  clothes  of  Casey  Pallam,  who  was  con- 
stantly saying  something  that  made  Jean  laugh,  were 
conspicuously  new  and  his  diamonds  were  disgustingly 
dazzling. 

At  four  o'clock  the  bell  rang  to  call  the  horses  from 
the  stables  for  the  Derby.  The  gate  from  the  paddock 
opened,  and  Petrel,  the  first  of  the  Derby  contestants, 
minced  daintily  through  it  to  the  course.  Following 
him  from  the  paddock  came  Timarch,  a  well-formed 
well-bred  black  giant,  who  looked,  however,  a  little  too 
fleshy  for  such  a  race  as  the  Derby.  Seven  of  the  nine 
starters  thus  appeared,  and  each  was  awarded  some  sign 
of  applause.  As  the  eighth  leaped  lithely  to  the  track 
with  elastic  step  and  free  stride  a  cheer  broke  from 
thousands.  It  was  Huguenot,  of  course;  no  other 
horse  on  the  grounds  would  have  met  such  an  ovation. 
Shaking  his  head  from  side  to  side  as  if  for  very  joy  in 
the  ecstacy  of  motion,  he  was  followed  by  a  parting 
cheer  as  he  cantered  off  to  the  starting-post;  and  Gid 
Bronxon  saw  Casey  Pallam,  a  few  feet  away,  smile  ra- 
diantly as  he  lifted  his  hat  to  Jean  Heath,  who  was 
beaming  on  him  from  the  grand-stand. 

The  next  moment  Uncle  Lije  at  his  bit  and  young 
Whitlock  on  his  back  succeeded  in  getting  Yaboo  from 
the  paddock  to  the  course.  As  the  uncomely  colt 
plunged  right  and  left,  laughter  echoed  from  stand  and 
field,  and  rose  again  as  a  big  voice  exclaimed,  "  Hitch 


6o  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

him  to  the  water-cart !  "  Gid  Bronxon  flushed  as  he 
saw  Casey  Pallam  join  in  the  laughter  and  cast  an 
amused  glance  in  the  direction  of  Jean  Heath.  But 
he  did  not  look  at  Jean  Heath  again  himself. 

After  much  persuasion  and  lashing  Yaboo  at  last 
switched  his  tail  in  the  air  impatiently  and  rushed  off 
rapidly  toward  the  other  horses,  which  were  waiting  for 
him  at  the  half-mile  post.  Arriving  there,  he  refused 
to  stop,  but  ran  on  a  quarter  of  a  mile  farther  before 
Whitlock  could  check  him;  and  ten  minutes  more  were 
consumed  in  bringing  him  back  to  the  starting-post. 
A  good  half-hour  was  then  wasted  in  attempting  to  get 
him  ofT  with  the  other  horses,  and  it  looked  as  if  it 
would  be  necessary  to  leave  the  crimson  and  white  be- 
hind and  run  the  race  without  Yaboo's  assistance. 
Gid  smiled  when  he  saw  Uncle  Lije  go  up  to  the  judges 
and  engage  those  officials  in  earnest  conversation,  em- 
phasizing it  with  many  obeisances  and  gestures.  He 
was  evidently  well  pleased  with  his  call,  for  when  he 
left  the  judges'  stand  he  was  wreathed  in  smiles.  Be- 
fore Gid  could  reach  him  he  had  disappeared  through 
the  crowd,  but  the  next  minute  a  messenger  from  the 
judges  was  galloping  across  the  field  to  inform  the 
starter  that  another  jockey  would  be  allowed  to  ride 
Yaboo,  and  a  few  moments  later  Gid  caught  sight  of 
Uncle  Lije  driving  a  buggy  furiously  toward  the  half- 
mile  post,  with  a  boyish  figure  in  crimson  and  white  at 
his  side.  He  wondered  idly  what  jockey  Uncle  Lije 
had  picked  up  now,  but  was  satisfied  that  it  was  of  no 
importance  who  rode  Yaboo,  as  nothing  could  be  ex- 
pected from  the  colt  in  his  present  humor. 

Through  his  glasses  he  saw  Uncle  Lije  and  his  com' 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  6l 

panion  spring  from  the  buggy  and  go  upon  the  track; 
saw  Whitlock  dismount  \vith  alacrity,  and  the  new 
jockey  approach  Yaboo  in  front  and  stand  for  an  in- 
stant patting  him  on  the  nose;  saw  him  vault  from 
Uncle  Lije's  hand  into  the  saddle,  and  then  bend  over 
the  colt  and  stroke  his  neck  for  a  few  seconds;  saw  him 
lift  himself  in  his  seat  and  gently  shake  "the  reins,  and 
Yaboo  walk  slowly  toward  the  other  horses;  saw  him 
come  abreast  of  them,  then  saw,  like  a  flash  of  refracted 
light,  a  many-colored  platoon  plunge  forward.  The 
next  instant  the  red  flag  had  cut  the  air  to  the  earth, 
there  was  a  resonant  shout  from  the  grand-stand,  and 
the  Derby  had  begun. 

As  the  horses  swung  into  the  stretch  for  the  first 
time,  they  rounded  the  turn  all  bunched.  But  only  for 
two  or  three  seconds  did  they  run  in  this  order,  for  as 
the  long  stretch  was  fairly  entered  Petrel  burst  from  the 
ruck  and  shot  to  the  van,  increasing  his  speed  at  every 
stride  until  by  the  time  he  had  covered  fifty  yards  he 
was  fully  three  lengths  ahead  of  all  the  others.  Then 
another  rein  was  loosened,  and  the  big  black  form  of 
Timarch  loomed  out  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  flying  Petrel, 
followed  by  a  general  quickening  of  the  pace  by  the 
others.  As  they  neared  the  stand  Petrel  was  still  lead- 
ing, but  Timarch  was  following  with  a  rush  that  was 
fast  lessening  the  distance  between  them.  Behind 
Timarch,  two  lengths  away,  were  the  others  in  a  pack, 
from  which  the  shapely  head  of  Huguenot  showed 
slightly  in  advance  of  the  remaining  six.  That  head 
was  sawing  from  side  to  side  desperately  as  the  colt 
fought  against  the  unyielding  bit  that  kept  him  from 
spurning  his  company  and  leaping  disdainfully  to  the 


62  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

lead.  Meanwhile,  at  his  saddle-girth,  unmindful  of  his 
disdain,  and  seemingly  of  everything  else,  Yaboo 
lounged  sleepily  along. 

As  the  end  of  the  stand  was  reached  Timarch  worked 
up  to  Petrel,  and  the  two  raced  down  to  the  "  wire," 
cheered  on  by  the  applause  of  the  spectators.  They 
ended  the  first  half-mile  of  the  race  head  and  head, 
passing  lapped  together  under  the  wire,  and  beginning 
in  earnest  the  mile  which  was  yet  to  be  traversed.  As 
they  dashed  by  the  judges  the  other  horses  were  four 
lengths  behind  them;  but  just  at  this  point  Huguenot's 
jockey  relaxed  his  reins  a  little  and  with  a  wonderful 
bound  that  shook  the  grand-stand  with  a  shout  of  joy, 
the  orange  and  blue  began  to  cut  down  the  gap  which 
Petrel  and  Timarch  had  made.  In  a  second  Huguenot 
was  clear  of  the  bunch,  and  leaving  it  farther  in  his  rear 
at  every  one  of  those  mighty,  graceful  bounds.  But  in 
another  second  Yaboo's  rider  had  bent  forward 
slightly,  and  Yaboo  himself,  appearing  to  w'ake  from 
his  dreams,  switched  his  tail  and  hurried  ofT  in  pursuit 
of  his  late  companion.  "  Just  look  at  old  Water-cart !  " 
yelled  the  big  voice  again,  and  before  the  laughter  had 
subsided  Yaboo's  nose  was  back  at  its  old  place  at 
Huguenot's  saddle-girth  :  in  another  moment  it  was  at 
his  throat-latch;  and  in  two  more  strides  the  crimson 
and  white  and  the  orange  and  blue  were  streaming 
through  the  sunlight  blended  together.  The  excite- 
ment now  began  to  grow  intense  as  the  next  quarter 
was  finished  with  Huguenot  and  Yaboo  side  by  side, 
only  a  length  behind  Petrel  and  Timarch,  still  lapped, 
while  the  others  were  struggling  some  lengths  away. 
It  was  evident,  however,  that  Petrel  and  Timarch  were 


HOW   THE   DERBY    WAS   WON  C3 

running  at  the  top  of  their  speed,  while  the  other  two 
each  had  something  yet  in  reserve. 

Gid  Bronxon  felt  the  hand  that  held  his  glasses  be- 
come a  trifle  unsteady  as  he  watched  the  good  work 
which  Yaboo  was  doing,  and  yielding  to  a  sudden  im- 
pulse he  glanced  up  in  the  grand-stand,  but  he  could 
not  see  either  Jean  Heath  or  her  aunt.  Looking  over 
into  the  field,  he  broke  into  a  nervous  laugh  as  he 
caught  sight  of  Uncle  Lije  hilariously  tossing  his  hat 
high  in  the  air. 

But  his  laugh  instantly  died  away  when  he  levelled 
his  glasses  on  the  horses  again.  They  were  approach- 
ing the  turn  into  the  backstretch,  in  the  same  order  as 
last  noted,  when  Yaboo  abruptly  left  Huguenot  and 
bolted  obliquely  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  track,  an 
action  which  sent  a  murmurous  commotion  through 
the  throngs  which  saw  it,  and  left  no  doubt  in  any  one's 
mind  that  all  chances  for  the  crimson  and  white  were 
over.  For  Huguenot  not  only  went  on  alone  in  pur- 
suit of  Petrel  and  Timarch,  but  by  the  time  Yaboo  had 
been  pulled  back  into  the  course  every  horse  in  the 
race  had  passed  that  obstinate  brute. 

Along  the  backstretch  it  soon  began  to  look  as  if  the 
result  would  be  between  Petrel  and  Huguenot,  for 
Timarch  faltered,  and  then  dropped  back  to  Hugue- 
not, the  latter  going  by  the  tired  black  colt  quickly,  and 
now  rapidly  overtaking  the  gallant  Petrel.  In  the 
nexftwenty  yards  he  collars  Petrel,  and  a  cry  goes  up 
from  the  grand-stand.  There  seems  nothing  in  the 
race  now  except  the  two,  and  in  another  twenty  yards 
the  cry  swells  into  an  exultant  roar  as  Huguenot's  col- 
ors flash  to  the  lead.     Petrel's  jockey  draws  his  whip 


64  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

and  plies  it  vigorously,  and  the  brave  colt  makes  an 
heroic  effort  to  recover  his  lost  ground.  But  it  is  use- 
less. Petrel's  race  is  run,  and  Huguenot  enters  on  the 
last  half-mile  two  good  lengths  in  front,  which  it  is  easy 
to  see  he  can  make  a  dozen  if  necessary.  "  It's  all 
over !  "  is  the  exclamation  which  rises  above  the  pande- 
monium in  the  field  and  the  grand-stand.  "  It's  Hu- 
guenot's race  !  "  "  There's  nothing  in  it  that  can  mak 
him  run  !  "     "  He  wins  in  a  walk !  " 

Huguenot  swings  into  the  homestretch  retaining  his 
advantage  without  an  effort,  and  running  with  a  free 
action  that  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  powerful,  his  rider  sit- 
ting motionless  in  supreme  confidence  that  all  that  is 
required  of  him  now  is  to  hold  the  horse  to  his  course. 

The  great  crowd  is  laughing  good-humoredly  at  Hu- 
guenot's easily  won  Derby.  Many  in  it  are  shaking 
each  other's  hands,  and  Gid  Bronxon  observes  that 
those  near  Casey  Pallani  are  boisterously  congratulat- 
ing him. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  new  tumult.  "  Look ! " 
"  Look !  "  "  Who  is  that?  "  "  See  how  he  comes !  " 
For  out  from  the  rear  tears  a  tornado  of  dust,  swirling 
by  horse  after  horse  with  a  swiftness  that  is  electric  in 
its  effect  on  those  who  see  it.  "  Who  is  it?  "  "  What 
is  it?  "  "  What  are  those  colors?  "  And  a  big  voice 
bellows,  "  By  the  great  Geehosaphat  if  it  ain't  old 
Water-cart !  "  "  Yaboo  !  "  "  Yaboo  !  "  "  Yaboo !  "  pro- 
claim a  thousand  straining  tongues,  and  the  reverberant 
shouts  startle  from  his  fancied  security  Huguenot's 
jockey,  who,  turning  in  his  seat,  looks  over  his  shoulder 
and  sees  swooping  down  on  him  that  pillar  of  dust,  out 
from  which,  even  as  he  looks,  there  leaps  like  a  gleam 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  &5 

of  lightning  a  sheen  of  crimson  and  white — and  Yaboo 
is  once  more  alongside  of  Hnguenot.  The  rider  in 
orange  and  bhie  is  no  longer  motionless  in  his  saddle; 
his  arms  beat  the  air  rapidly  as  he  shakes  the  reins,  and 
his  heels  strike  against  Hnguenot's  sides  incessantly, 
as,  for  the  first  time,  he  begins  to  urge  the  son  of  Virgil 
to  do  his  best.  But  Yaboo  is  not  to  be  gotten  rid  of 
easily.  It  is  as  if  he  were  borne  on  by  some  preternat- 
ural force,  on  which  he  has  been  hurled  forward  with  a 
momentum  that  is  resistless.  Do  what  he  can.  Hugue- 
not cannot  shake  that  demon  from  his  side,  and  an 
eighth  of  a  mile  from  the  end  the  two  are  neck  and  neck, 
and  each  is  running  as  he  has  never  run  before.  On 
they  plunge,  stride  for  stride,  the  dust  rising  and  hang- 
ing over  the  other  horses  a  few^  yards  behind  them, 
whose  riders  are  now  making  a  last  desperate  attempt 
to  force  them  to  the  front.  And  as  they  respond  with 
their  final  rally,  and  dash  furiously  forward  in  a  close 
cluster  through  that  lowering  dust,  it  is,  indeed,  as  if  a 
storm  were  sweeping  down  the  course,  from  wdiich 
those  two  terror-stricken  beasts  just  in  front  of  it  are 
fleeing  for  their  lives.  On  they  fly  from  one  storm 
into  another — from  the  storm  behind  them  into  the 
storm  that  bursts  before  them  from  ten  thousand 
throats.  They  are  so  near  now  that  the  play  of  their 
tense  muscles  can  be  seen  without  the  aid  of  glasses; 
but  near  as  they  are,  those  myriad  eyes  cannot  see 
w'hich,  if  either,  leads  the  other.  They  are  so  near 
that  the  delicate  nostrils  of  Huguenot,  dilated  to  their 
utmost  in  this  mighty  struggle,  glow  like  opalescent 
fire.  They  are  so  near  that,  straining,  as  if  almost  they 
would  leave  their  sockets,  the  whites  of  Yaboo's  eyes 


66  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

are  plainly  visible.  Huguenot,  with  every  faculty  o! 
his  beautiful  body  and  dauntless  spirit  thrown  into  this 
supreme  effort,  is  superb  and  more  than  worthy  of 
every  one  of  those  deafening  plaudits,  "  Huguenot !  " 
"  Huguenot !  "  Yaboo  in  motion,  now  the  incarnation 
of  a  terrific  power,  is  grand,  and  deserves  that  frantic 
acclaim,  "  Yaboo !  "  "  Yaboo !  "  Pitted  together  they 
are  magnificent,  and  "  Huguenot !  "  "  Huguenot !  " 
"  Yaboo  !  "  "  Yaboo  !  "  "  Yaboo  wins !  "  "  Huguenot 
wins!  "  rend  that  mad  multitude  with  a  warring  chaos 
of  enthusiasm.  On  they  come,  even  yet  as  though 
yoked  together;  but  now  as  they  reach  the  sixteenth 
pole,  is  it — can  it  be  that  the  crimson  has  forged  just  a 
hand's-breath  in  front  of  the  orange?  "  Huguenot  is 
beaten !  "  rises  from  the  people  like  a  groan  of  defeat 
and  a  yell  of  victory.  His  jockey  immediately  raises 
his  whip,  and  Huguenot  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
feels  the  sting  of  raw-hide.  "  Huguenot  is  whip- 
ping! "  is  heard  above  that  wild  uproar,  if  there  is  any 
one  to  hear.  The  sensitive  creature  springs  gamely 
from  the  lash,  and  with  an  herculean  bound  wrests  the 
lead  from  his  competitor.  "  Huguenot  has  him !  " 
"  Huguenot  wins ! "  and  the  multitude  sways  and 
storms  over  the  triumph  of  the  favorite — for  triumph 
it  must  be  as  the  goal  is  now  not  fifteen  yards  away. 
Yaboo's  jockey  bends  lower  over  his  horse's  withers; 
there  is  a  tremulous  motion  of  his  hands,  a  convulsive 
pressure  of  his  knees,  a  quick  lifting  as  if  of  the  horse  by 
the  rider,  and  while  the  cruel  blows  yet  fall  on  Hugue- 
not's flank,  Yaboo,  amid  an  outburst  that  must  startle 
the  far  Indiana  hills,  hurtles  past  the  judges,  winner,  by 
a  **  head,"  of  the  Kentucky  Derbv. 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  O/ 

As  the  jockeys  rode  l)ack  to  the  jnug-es'  stand  to  dis- 
mount after  the  finish  of  the  race,  Gid  Bronxon  sud- 
denly sprang-  through  the  gate  to  the  track,  and  hurry- 
ing to  Yaboo,  Hfted  his  drooping  rider  from  the  saddle. 
His  own  face  was  as  pale  as  the  boy's,  and  as  he  held  the 
exhausted  figure  for  an  instant  in  his  arms  he  saw  tears 
trembling  on  the  little  fellow's  lashes.  "  Put  me  down 
quick,  quick !  "  came  from  the  quivering  lips,  and  like 
one  in  a  dream  Gid  plared  him  on  the  ground.  The 
crimson  and  white  jacket  disappeared  immediately  into 
the  latticed  weighing-ro<Mn.  In  a  moment  Gid  saw  it 
tome  forth  and  slip  away  through  the  crowd.  A  min- 
ute later  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  by  Uncle  Lije's  side, 
as  the  old  trainer  drove  away  in  the  buggy;  and  while 
the  eyes  of  perhaps  all  that  throng  were  directed  upon 
the  horse  that  had  won  the  Derby,  and  upon  the  time  of 
the  race,  which  had  just  been  posted,  Gid,  going  to  the 
topmost  railing  of  the  grand-stand,  followed  with  a 
dazed  look  the  buggy  as  it  left  the  grounds,  turned 
into  the  old  road  that  extends  beyond  them,  and 
stopped  in  front  of  a  little  cottage  back  among  the 
trees.  Then  he  saw  the  crimson  and  white  jacket  leave 
the  buggy  and  run  up  to  the  door,  into  the  arms  of  a 
lady  who  was  standmg  there,  and  on  whose  head  was 
an  aggressively  old-fashioned  bonnet. 

About  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Gid  met  Major 
Heath  in  the  lobby  of  the  Gait  House,  and  after  receiv- 
ing the  old  gentleman's  congratulations  the  two  en- 
gaged in  a  conversation  which  concluded  in  this  way : 

"  I'm  afeard  not,  Gid.  Jean  is  in  a  turrible  tantrum. 
Cryin'  all  the  time,  an'  says  she  never  wants  to  see  no- 
body ag'in." 


,68  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  But,  Major,  if  it  is  possible,  I  must  speak  to  her 
somehow." 

"  Come  along  then,  an'  I'll  see  if  I  c'n  manage  it." 

Among  the  "  Notes  "  which  followed  a  long  descrip- 
tion of  the  Derby  in  a  Louisville  paper  next  day  were 
these : 

"  It  is  reported  that  the  owner  of  Yaboo  was  offered 
$10,000  for  him  within  half  an  hour  after  the  race  yes- 
terday." 

"  The  most  important  and  happiest  man  in  town  last 
night  was  old  Uncle  Lije  Heath,  who  trained  the 
Derby  winner.  He  says  he  knew  all  the  time  that 
Yaboo  was  no  half-breed,  and  that  his  Bonnie  Scotland 
blood  was  bound  to  pull  him  through." 

"  It  is  said  that  young  Smith,  who  piloted  Yaboo  to 
victory,  never  rode  in  a  race  before.  If  such  is  the  case 
the  lad's  performance  was  nothing  short  of  marvellous. 
Smith  is  from  the  country,  and  was  discovered  by 
Uncle  Lije  Heath,  who  says,  however,  that  the  boy's 
parents  would  never  consent  to  his  going  upon  the  turf. 
This  is  unfortunate,  as  there  is  no  doubt  that  he  would 
soon  rank  with  the  premier  jockeys  of  America.  Un- 
cle Lije  explains  that  Smith  would  not  have  ridden  yes- 
terday if  the  horse  had  not  been  a  favorite  of  his,  and 
if  the  ridicule  with  which  the  crowd  greeted  Yaboo  had 
not  made  the  boy  indignant." 

"  The  genial  Major  Heath,  of  Woodford  County, 
was  seen  by  a  reporter  in  front  of  the  Gait  House  late 
last  night,  in  company  with  Mr.  Bronxon,  the  owner 


HOW    THE   DERBY    WAS   WON  69 

of  Yaboo.  The  Major  seemed  as  radiant  over  the  re- 
sult as  Mr.  Bronxon  himself,  as  the  great  son  of  Glenelg 
and  Brunhilde  was  bred  by  the  Major,  being  the  first 
Derby  winner  he  has  yet  produced.  He  sold  Yaboo  as 
a  two-year-old,  he  says,  for  $160.  Mr.  Bronxon,  in 
response  to  an  inquiry  by  the  reporter,  said  he  thought 
that  yesterday's  experience  would  satisfy  him,  and  that 
he  would  seek  no  further  honors  on  the  turf.  Major 
Heath  intimated  that  there  was  some  probability  of  the 
formation  of  a  partnership  between  himself  and  Mr. 
Bronxon  for  the  management  of  the  former's  stock 
farm,  an  intimation  which  Mr.  Bronxon  did  not  deny." 


HIS  MOTHER'S  SERMON* 

IAN    MACLAREN 

He  was  an  ingenuous  lad,  with  the  callow  simplicity 
of  a  theological  college  still  untouched,  and  had  ar- 
rived on  the  preceding  Monday  at  the  Free  Kirk 
manse  with  four  cartloads  of  furniture  and  a  maiden 
aunt.  For  three  days  he  roamed  from  room  to  room 
in  the  excitement  of  householding,  and  made  sugges- 
tions which  were  received  with  hilarious  contempt; 
then  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  study  to  prepare  the 
great  sermon,  and  his  aunt  went  about  on  tiptoe. 
During  meals  on  Friday  he  explained  casually  that  his 
own  wish  was  to  preach  a  simple  sermon,  and  that  he 
would  have  done  so  had  he  been  a  private  individual, 
but  as  he  had  held  the  MacWhammel  scholarship  a 
deliverance  was  expected  by  the  country.  He  would 
be  careful  and  say  nothing  rash,  but  it  was  due  to 
himself  to  state  the  present  position  of  theological 
thought,  and  he  might  have  to  quote  once  or  twice 
from  Ewald. 

His  aunt  was  a  saint,  with  that  firm  grasp  of  truth, 
and  tender  mysticism,  whose  combination  is  the  charm 
of  Scottish  piety,  and  her  face  was  troubled.  While 
the  minister  was  speaking  in  his  boyish  complacency, 
her  thoughts  were  in  a  room  where  they  had  both 

*See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  552> 
7o 


HIS    MOTHER'S   SERMON  71' 

Stood  five  years  before,  by  the  death-bed  of  his 
mother. 

He  was  broken  that  day,  and  his  sobs  shook  the  bed, 
for  he  was  his  mother's  only  son  and  fatherless,  and 
his  mother,  brave  and  faithful  to  the  last,  was  bidding 
him  farewell. 

"  Dinna  greet  like  that,  John,  nor  break  yir  hert,  for 
it's  the  will  o'  God,  and  that's  aye  best. 

"  Here's  my  watch  and  chain,"  placing  them  beside 
her  son,  who  could  not  touch  them,  nor  would  lift  his 
head,  "  and  when  ye  feel  the  chain  about  yir  neck  it 
will  mind  ye  o'  yir  mother's  arms. 

"  Ye'ill  no  forget  me,  John,  I  ken  that  weel,  and 
I'll  never  forget  you.  I've  loved  ye  here,  and  I'll  love 
ye  yonder.  Th'ill  no  be  an  'oor  when  I'll  no  pray 
for  ye,  and  I'll  ken  better  what  to  ask  than  I  did  here; 
sae  dinna  be  comfortless." 

Then  she  felt  for  his  head  and  stroked  it  once  more, 
but  he  could  not  look  nor  speak. 

"  Ye'ill  follow  Christ,  and  gin  He  offers  ye  His  cross, 
ye'ill  no  refuse  it,  for  He  aye  carries  the  heavy  end 
Himsel'.  He's  guided  yir  mother  a'  thae  years,  and 
been  as  guid  as  a  husband  since  yir  father's  death,  and 
He'ill  hold  me  fast  tae  the  end.  He'ill  keep  ye  too, 
and,  John,  I'll  be  watchin'  for  ye.  Ye'ill  no  fail  me," 
and  her  poor  cold  hand  that  had  tended  him  all  his 
days  tightened  on  his  head. 

But  he  could  not  speak,  and  her  voice  was  failing 
fast. 

"  I  canna  see  ye  noo,  John,  but  I  know  yir  there, 
and  I've  just  one  other  wish.  If  God  calls  ye  to  the 
ministry,  ye'ill  no  refuse,  an'  the  first  day  ye  preach 


72  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

in  yir  ain  kirk,  speak  a  glide  word  for  Jesus  Christ, 
an',  John,  I'll  hear  ye  that  day,  though  ye'ill  no  see 
me,  and  I'll  be  satisfied." 

A  minute  after  she  whispered,  "  Pray  for  me,"  and 
he  cried,  "  My  mother,  my  mother !  " 

It  was  a  full  prayer,  and  left  nothing  unasked  of 
Mary's  Son. 

"  John,"  said  his  aunt,  "  your  mother  is  with  the 
Lord,"  and  he  saw  death  for  the  first  time,  but  it  was 
beautiful  with  the  peace  that  passeth  all  understanding. 

Five  years  had  passed,  crowded  with  thought  and 
work,  and  his  aunt  wondered  whether  he  remembered 
that  last  request,  or  indeed  had  heard  it  in  his  sorrow. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about,  aunt?  Are  you 
afraid  of  my  theology?  " 

"  No,  John,  it's  no  that,  laddie,  for  I  ken  ye'ill  say 
what  ye  believe  to  be  true  withoot  fear  o'  man,"  and 
she  hesitated. 

"  Come,  out  with  it,  auntie :  you're  my  only  mother 
now,  you  know,"  and  the  minister  put  his  arm  round 
her,  "  as  well  as  the  kindest,  bonniest,  goodest  auntie 
ever  man  had." 

Below  his  student  self-conceit  he  was  a  good  lad, 
and  sound  of  heart. 

"  Shame  on  you,  John,  to  make  a  fule  o'  an  auld 
dune  body,  but  ye'ill  no  come  round  me  wi'  yir  flattery. 
I  ken  ye  ower  weel,"  and  as  she  caught  the  likeness  in 
his  face,  her  eyes  filled  suddenly. 

"  What's  the  matter,  auntie?     Will  ye  no  tell  me?" 

"  Dinna  be  angry  wi'  me,  John,  but  a'm  concerned 
aboot  Sabbath,  for  a've  been  praying  ever  syne  ye  were 
called  to  Drumtochty  that  it  micht  be  a  great  day, 


HIS  mother's  sermon  73 

and  that  I  micht  see  ye  comin'  tae  yir  people,  laddie,  wi' 
the  beauty  o'  the  Lord  upon  ye,  according  tae  the  auld 
prophecy :  '  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the 
feet  of  him  that  bringeth  good  tidings,  that  publisheth 
peace,'  "  and  again  she  stopped. 

"  Go  on,  auntie,  go  on,"  he  whispered;  "  say  all  that's 
in  yir  mind." 

"  It's  no  for  me  tae  advise  ye,  who  am  only  a  simple 
auld  woman,  who  ken's  naethin'  but  her  Bible  and  the 
Catechism,  and  it's  no  that  a'm  feared  for  the  new 
views,  or  aboot  yir  faith,  for  I  aye  mind  that  there's 
mony  things  the  Speerit  hes  still  tae  teach  us,  and  I  ken 
weel  the  man  that  follows  Christ  will  never  lose  his  way 
in  ony  thicket.  But  it's  the  fouk,  John,  a'm  anxious 
aboot;  the  flock  o'  sheep  the  Lord  hes  given  ye  tae 
feed  for  Him." 

She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  felt  him  gently 
press  her  hand  and  took  courage. 

"  Ye  maun  mind,  laddie,  that  they're  no  clever  and 
learned  like  what  ye  are,  but  juist  plain  country  fouk, 
ilka  ane  wi'  his  ain  temptation,  an'  a'  sair  trachled  wi' 
mony  cares  o'  this  world.  They'ill  need  a  clear  word 
tae  comfort  their  herts  and  show  them  the  way  ever- 
lasting. Ye'ill  say  what's  richt,  nae  doot  o'  that,  and 
a'body  'ill  be  pleased  wi'  ye,  but,  oh,  laddie,  be  sure  ye 
say  a  gude  word  for  Jesus  Christ." 

The  minister's  face  whitened,  and  his  arm  relaxed. 
He  rose  hastily  and  went  to  the  door,  but  in  going  out 
he  gave  his  aunt  an  understanding  look,  such  as 
passes  between  people  who  have  stood  together  in  a 
sorrow.  The  son  had  not  forgottei^  his  mother's 
request. 


74  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

vThe  marrse  garden  lies  toward  the  west,  and  as  the 
minister  paced  its  little  square  of  turf  sheltered  by  fir 
hedges,  the  sun  was  going  down  behind  the  Grampians. 
Black  massy  clouds  had  begun  to  gather  in  the  evening 
and  threatened  to  obscure  the  sunset,  which  was  the 
finest  sight  a  Drumtochty  man  was  ever  likely  to  see, 
and  a  means  of  grace  to  every  sensible  heart  in  the  glen. 
But  the  sun  had  beat  back  the  clouds  on  either  side,  and 
shot  them  through  with  glory,  and  now  between  piled 
billows  of  light  he  went  along  a  shining  pathway  into 
the  Gates  of  the  West.  The  minister  stood  still  before 
that  spectacle,  his  face  bathed  in  the  golden  glory,  and 
then  before  his  eyes  the  gold  deepened  into  an  awful 
red,  and  the  red  passed  into  shades  of  violet  and  green, 
beyond  painter's  hand  or  the  imagination  of  man.  It 
seemed  to  him  as  if  a  victorious  saint  had  entered 
through  the  gates  into  the  city,  washed  in  the  blood 
of  the  Lamb,  and  the  after-glow  of  his  mother's  life 
fell  solemnly  on  his  soul.  The  last  trace  of  sunset  had 
faded  from  the  hills  when  the  minister  came  in,  and  his 
face  was  of  one  who  had  seen  a  vision.  He  asked  his 
aunt  to  have  worship  with  the  servant,  for  he  must  be 
alone  in  his  study. 

It  was  a  cheerful  room  in  the  daytime,  with  its  south- 
ern window,  through  which  the  minister  saw  the  roses 
touching  the  very  glass  and  dwarf  apple  trees  lining  the 
garden  walks;  there  was  also  a  western  window  that  he 
might  watch  each  day  close.  It  was  a  pleasant  room 
now,  when  the  curtains  were  drawn,  and  the  light  of 
the  lamp  fell  on  the  books  he  loved,  and  which  bade 
him  welcome.  One  by  one  he  had  arranged  the  hard 
bought  treasures  of  student  days  in  the  little  book- 


HIS   MOTHER'S   SERMON  ^J 

case,  and  had  planned  for  himself  that  sweetest  of 
pleasures,  an  evening  of  desultory  reading.  But  his 
books  went  out  of  mind  as  he  looked  at  the  sermon 
shining  beneath  the  glare  of  the  lamp  and  demanding 
judgment.  He  had  tinished  its  last  page  with  honest 
pride  that  afternoon,  and  had  declaimed  it,  facing  the 
southern  window,  with  a  success  that  amazed  himself. 
His  hope  was  that  he  might  be  kept  humble,  and  not 
called  to  Edinburgh  for  at  least  two  years;  and  now  he 
lifted  the  sheets  with  fear.  The  brilliant  opening  with 
its  historical  parallel,  this  review  of  modern  thought 
reinforced  by  telling  quotations,  that  trenchant  criti- 
cism of  old-fashioned  views,  would  not  deliver.  For  the 
audience  had  vanished,  and  left  one  careworn,  but  ever 
beautiful  face,  whose  gentle  eyes  were  waiting  with  a 
yearning  look.  Twice  he  crushed  the  sermon  in  his 
hands,  and  turned  to  the  fire  his  aunt's  care  had  kindled, 
and  twice  he  repented  and  smoothed  it  out.  What 
else  could  he  say  now  to  the  people?  and  then  in  the 
stillness  of  the  room  he  heard  a  voice,  "  Speak  a  gude 
word  for  Jesus  Christ." 

Next  minute  he  was  kneeling  on  the  hearth,  and 
pressing  the  magmiDi  opus,  that  was  to  shake  Drum- 
tochty,  into  the  heart  of  the  red  fire,  and  he  saw,  half- 
smiling  and  half-weeping,  the  impressive  words  "  Se- 
mitic environment  "  shrivel  up  and  disappear.  As  the 
last  black  flake  fluttered  out  of  sight,  the  face  looked  at 
him  again,  but  this  time  the  sweet  brown  eyes  were  full 
of  peace. 

It  was  no  masterpiece,  but  only  the  crude  produc- 
tion of  a  lad  who  knew  little  of  letters  and  nothing  of 
the  world.     Very  likely  it  would  have  done  neither 


70  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

harm  nor  good,  but  it  was  his  best,  and  he  gave  it  for 
love's  sake,  and  I  suppose  that  there  is  nothing  in  a 
human  life  so  precious  to  God,  neither  clever  words  nor 
famous  deeds,  as  the  sacrifices  of  love. 

The  moon  flooded  his  bedroom  with  silver  light,  and 
he  felt  the  presence  of  his  mother.  His  bed  stood 
ghostly  with  its  white  curtains,  and  he  remembered 
how  every  night  his  mother  knelt  by  its  side  in  prayer 
for  him.  He  is  a  boy  once  more,  and  repeats  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  then  he  cries  again,  "  My  mother!  my 
mother!"  and  an  indescribable  contentment  fills  his 
heart. 

His  prayer  next  morning  was  very  short,  but  after- 
ward he  stood  at  the  window,  for  a  space,  and  when  he 
turned  his  aunt  said : 

"  Ye  will  get  yir  sermon,  and  it  will  be  worth 
hearing." 

"  How  did  ye  know?  " 

But  she  only  smiled,  "  I  heard  you  pray," 

When  he  shut  himself  into  the  study  that  Saturday 
morning,  his  aunt  went  into  her  room  above,  and  he 
knew^  she  had  gone  to  intercede  for  him. 

An  hour  afterward  he  was  pacing  the  garden  in  such 
anxious  thought  that  he  crushed  with  his  foot  a  rose 
lying  on  the  path,  and  then  she  saw  his  face  suddenly 
lighten,  and  he  hurried  to  the  house,  but  first  he 
plucked  a  bunch  of  forget-me-nots.  In  the  evening 
she  found  them  on  his  sermon. 

Two  hours  later — for  still  she  prayed  and  watched 
in  faithfulness  to  mother  and  son — she  observed  him 
come  out  and  wander  around  the  garden  in  great  joy. 
He  lifted  up  the  soiled  rose  and  put  it  in  his  coat;  he 


HIS  mother's  sermon  7f 

released  a  butterfly  caught  in  some  mesh;  he  buried  his 
face  in  fragrant  honeysuckle.  Then  she  understood 
that  his  heart  was  full  of  love,  and  was  sure  that  it 
would  be  well  on  the  morrow. 

When  the  bell  began  to  ring-,  the  minister  rose  from 
his  knees  and  went  to  his  aunt's  room  to  be  robed, 
for  this  was  a  covenant  between  them. 

His  gown  was  spread  out  in  its  black  silken  glory, 
but  he  sat  down  in  despair. 

"  Auntie,  whatever  shall  we  do,  for  I've  forgotten 
the  bands?  " 

"  But  I've  not  forgot  them,  John,  and  here  are  six 
pair  wrought  with  my  own  hands,  and  now  sit  still  and 
I'll  tie  them  round  my  laddie's  neck." 

When  she  had  given  the  last  touch,  and  he  was  ready 
to  go,  a  sudden  seriousness  fell  upon  them. 

"  Kiss  me,  auntie." 

"  For  your  mother,  and  her  God  be  with  you,"  and 
then  he  went  through  the  garden  and  underneath  the 
honeysuckle  and  into  the  kirk,  where  every  Free 
Churchman  in  Drumtochty  that  could  get  out  of  bed, 
and  half  the  Established  Kirk,  were  waiting  in  expecta- 
tion. 

I  sat  with  his  aunt  in  the  minister's  pew,  and  shall 
always  be  glad  that  I  was  at  that  service,  \\dien  winter 
lies  heavy  upon  the  glen  I  go  upon  my  travels,  and  in 
my  time  have  seen  many  religious  functions.  I  have 
been  in  i\Ir.  Spurgeon's  Tabernacle,  where  the  people 
wept  one  minute  and  laugiied  the  next;  have  heard 
Canon  Liddon  in  St.  Paul's,  and  the  sound  of  that  high, 
clear  voice  is  still  with  me,  "  Awake,  awake,  put  on  thy 
sitrength,  O  Zion;  "  have  seen  High  Mass  in  St.  Peter's, 


78.  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

and  stood  in  the  dusk  of  the  Duomo  at  Florence  when 
Padre  Agostino  thundered  against  the  evils  of  the  day. 
But  I  never  realized  the  unseen  world  as  I  did  that  day 
in  the  Free  Kirk  of  Drumtochty. 

It  is  impossible  to  analyze  a  spiritual  effect,  because 
it  is  largely  an  atmosphere,  but  certain  circumstances 
assisted.  One  was  instantly  prepossessed  in  favor  of 
a  young  minister  who  gave  out  the  second  paraphrase 
at  his  first  service,  for  it  declared  his  filial  reverence  and 
won  for  him  the  blessing  of  a  cloud  of  witnesses.  No 
Scottish  man  can  ever  sing, 

"  God  of  our  fathers,  be  the  God 
Of  their  succeeding  race," 

with  a  dry  heart.  It  satisfied  me  at  once  that  the  minis- 
ter was  of  a  fine  temper  when,  after  a  brave  attempt  to 
join,  he  hid  his  face  and  was  silent.  We  thought  none 
the  worse  of  him  that  he  was  nervous,  and  two  or  three 
old  people  who  had  suspected  self-sufificiency  took  him 
to  their  hearts  when  the  minister  concluded  the  Lord's 
prayer  hurriedly,  having  omitted  two  petitions.  But 
we  knew  it  was  not  nervousness  which  made  him  pause 
for  ten  seconds  after  praying  for  widows  and  orphans, 
and  in  the  silence  which  fell  upon  us  the  Divine  Spirit 
had  free  access.  His  youth  commended  him,  since  he 
was  also  modest,  for  every  mother  had  come  with  an 
inarticulate  prayer  that  the  "  puir  laddie  wud  dae  weel 
on  his  first  day,  and  him  only  twenty-four."  Texts  I 
can  never  remember,  nor.  for  that  matter,  the  words  of 
sermons;  but  the  subject  was  Jesus  Christ,  and  before 
he  had  spoken  five  minutes  I  was  convinced,  who  am 
outside  dogmas  and  churches,  that  Christ  was  present. 


HIS    MOTHER'S   SERMON  71^ 

The  preacher  faded  from  before  one's  eyes,  and  there 
rose  the  figure  of  the  Nazarene,  best  lover  of  every 
human  soul,  Avith  a  face  of  tender  patience  such  as 
Sarto  gave  the  Master  in  the  Church  of  the  Annunziata, 
and  stretching  out  his  hands  to  old  folk  and  little  chil- 
dren as  He  did,  before  his  death,  in  Galilee.  His  voice 
might  be  heard  any  moment,  as  I  have  imagined  it  in 
my  lonely  hours  by  the  winter  fire  or  on  the  solitary 
hills — soft,  low,  and  sweet,  penetrating  like  music  to 
the  secret  of  the  heart,  "  Come  unto  Me  .  .  .  and  I  will 
give  you  rest." 

During  a  pause  in  the  sermon  I  glanced  up  the 
church,  and  saw  the  same  spell  held  the  people.  Don- 
ald Menzies  had  long  ago  been  caught  into  the  third 
heaven,  and  was  now  hearing  words  which  it  is  not 
lawful  tc  .liter.  Campbell  in  his  watch-tower  at  the 
back  had  closed  his  eyes,  and  was  praying.  The 
women  were  weeping  quietly,  and  the  rugged  faces  of 
our  men  were  subdued  and  softened,  as  when  the  even- 
ing sun  plays  on  the  granite  stone. 

But  what  will  stand  out  for  ever  before  my  mind  was 
the  sight  of  Marget  Howe.  Her  face  was  as  white  as 
death,  and  her  wonderful  gray  eyes  were  shining 
through  a  mist  of  tears,  so  that  I  caught  the  light  in 
the  manse  pew.  She  was  thinking  of  George,  and  had 
taken  the  minister  to  her  heart. 

The  elders,  one  by  one,  gripped  the  minister's  hand 
in  the  vestry,  and,  though  plain,  homely  men,  they  were 
the  godliest  in  the  glen;  but  no  man  spoke  save  Burn- 
brae. 

"  I  a'  but  lost  ae  fairm  for  the  Free  Kirk,  and  I  wud 
bae  lost  ten  tae  be  in  the  Kirk  this  day." 


So  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Donald  walked  with  me  homewards,  but  would  only 
say: 

"  There  was  a  man  sent  from  God  whose  name  was 
John."  At  the  cottage  he  added,  "  The  friend  of  the 
bridegroom  rejoiced  greatly  because  of  the  bride- 
groom's voice." 

Beneath  the  honeysuckle  at  his  garden  gate  a  woman 
was  waiting. 

"  My  name  is  Marget  Howe,  and  I'm  the  wife  of 
William  Howe  of  Whinnie  Knowe.  My  only  son  was 
preparin'  for  the  ministry,  but  God  wanted  him  nearly 
a  year  syne.  When  ye  preached  the  Evangel  o'  Jesus 
the  day  I  heard  his  voice,  and  I  loved  you.  Ye  hev 
nae  mither  on  earth,  I  hear,  and  I  hae  nae  son,  and  I 
wantit  tae  say  that  if  ye  ever  wish  tae  speak  to  ony 
woman  as  ye  wud  tae  yir  mither,  come  tae  Whinnie 
Knowe,  an'  I'll  coont  it  ane  of  the  Lord's  consolations." 

His  aunt  could  only  meet  him  in  the  study,  and  when 
he  looked  on  her  his  lip  quivered,  for  his  heart  was 
wrung  with  one  wistful  regret. 

"  Oh,  auntie,  if  she  had  only  been  spared  to  see  this 
day,  and  her  prayers  answered." 

But  his  aunt  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"  Dinna  be  cast  doon,  laddie,  nor  be  unbelievin'. 
Yir  mither  has  heard  every  word,  and  is  satisfied,  for  ye 
did  it  in  remembrance  o'  her,  and  yon  was  yir  mither's 
sermon." 


THE  RACE  WITH  THE  FLAMES 

W.  H.   H.  MURRAY 

At  the  head  of  a  stretch  of  swiftly  running  water 
the  river  widened  into  a  broad  and  deep  pool.  From 
the  western  bank  a  huge  ledge  of  rock  sloped  down- 
ward and  outward  into  the  water.  On  it  stood  the 
trapper,  John  Norton,  with  a  look  of  both  expectation 
and  anxiety  on  his  face. 

"  Yis,  the  wind  has  changed  and  the  fire  be  comin' 
this  way;  and  ef  it  gits  into  the  balsam  thickets  this  side 
of  the  mountain  and  the  wind  holds  where  it  is,  a  buck 
in  full  jump  could  hardly  outrun  it.  Yis,  the  smoke 
thickens.  I  hope  he  won't  do  anything  resky  for  the 
sake  of  the  pups.  Ef  he  can't  git  'em,  he  can't;  and  I 
trust  he  won't  resk  the  life  of  a  man  for  a  couple  of 
dogs." 

With  these  words  the  trapper  relapsed  into  silence. 
But  every  minute  added  to  his  anxiety,  for  the  smoke 
thickened  in  the  air  and  even  a  few  cinders  began  to 
pass  him  as  they  were  blown  onward  with  the  smoke 
by  the  wind. 

"  The  fire  is  comin'  down  the  river,"  he  said,  "  and 
the  boy  has  it  behind  him.  Lord-a-massy !  hear  it 
roar!  I  know  the  boy  is  comin',  for  I  never  knowed 
him  to  do  a  foolish  thing  in  the  woods;  and  it  would  be 
downright  madness  for  him  to  stay  in  the  shanty,  or 


82  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

even  go  to  the  shanty,  ef  the  fire  had  struck  the 
balsam  thicket  afore  he  made  the  landin'.  Lord,  ef  an 
oar-blade  should  break, — but  it  won't  break.  The 
Lord  of  marcy  won't  let  an  oar  that  the  boy  is  handlin' 
break,  when  the  fire  is  racin'  behind  him,  and  he's 
comin'  back  from  an  errand  of  marcy.  I  never  seed  a 
man  desarted  in  a  time  Hke " 

A  report  of  a  rifle  rang  out  quick  and  sharp  through 
the  smoke. 

"  God  be  praised !  "  said  the  trapper,  "  it's  the  boy's 
own  piece,  and  he  let  it  off  as  he  shot  the  rift  the  fourth 
bend  above.     I  trust  the  boy  got  the  pups,  arter  all." 

It  couldn't  have  been  over  five  minutes  after  the 
report  of  a  rifle  had  sounded,  before  a  boat  swept  sud- 
denly around  the  bend  above  the  rock  and  shot  like 
an  arrow  through  the  haze  toward  the  trapper.  Her- 
bert was  at  the  oars  and  the  two  hounds  were  sitting 
on  their  haunches  at  the  stern.  The  stroke  the  oars- 
man was  pulling  was  such  as  a  man  pulls  when,  in 
answer  to  some  emergency,  he  is  putting  forth  his 
whole  strength.  But  though  the  stroke  was  an  ear- 
nest one,  there  was  no  apparent  hurry  in  it ;  for  it  was 
long  and  evenly  pulled,  from  dip  to  finish,  and  the 
recovery  seemed  a  trifle  leisurely  done.  The  face  of 
the  trapper  fairly  shone  with  delight  as  he  saw  the 
boat  and  the  occupants. 

"  Hillow  there,  boy !  Hi,  hi,  pups !  Here  I  be  on 
the  p'int  of  the  rock,  as  fresh  as  a  buck  arter  a  mornin' 
drink.  Ease  away  a  leetle,  Herbert,  in  yer  stroke  and 
move  the  pups  forad  a  leetle  and  make  room  for  a 
man  and  a  paddle,  for  the  fire  is  arter  ye  and  the  time 
has  come  to  jine  works." 


THE   RACE   WITH    THE    FLAMES  Sj 

The  young  man  did  as  the  trapper  requested.  The 
boat  was  under  good  headway  when  it  passed  the  point 
of  the  ledge  on  which  the  trapper  was  standing,  but 
as  it  glanced  by,  the  old  man  leaped  with  practised 
agility  to  his  place  in  the  stern  and  had  given  a  full 
and  strong  stroke  to  his  paddle  before  he  had  fairly 
settled  to  his  seat. 

"  Now,  Herbert,"  he  began,  "  ease  yerself  a  bit,  for 
ye  have  had  a  tough  pull  and  it's  good  seven  miles  to 
the  rapids.  The  fire  is  sartinly  comin'  in  arnest,  but 
the  river  runs  nigh  onto  straight  till  ye  git  within  sight 
of  'em,  and  I  think  we  will  beat  it.  I  didn't  feel  sartin 
that  ye  had  got  the  pups,  Herbert,  for  I  could  see  by 
the  signs  that  ye  wouldn't  have  any  time  to  spare. 
Was  it  a  tech  and  a  go,  boy?  " 

"  The  fire  was  in  the  pines  west  of  the  shanty  when 
I  entered  it,"  answered  the  young  man,  "  and  the 
smoke  was  so  thick  that  I  couldn't  see  it  from  the 
river  as  I  landed." 

"  I  conceited  as  much,"  replied  the  trapper,  "  I  con- 
ceited as  much.  Yis,  I  knowed  'twould  be  a  close 
shave  ef  ye  got  'em,  and  I  feared  ye  would  run  a  resk 
that  ye  oughtn't  to  run,  in  yer  love  for  the  dogs." 

"  I  didn't  propose  to  leave  the  dogs  to  die,"  re- 
sponded the  young  man. 

"  Ye  speak  with  right  feelin',  Herbert,"  replied  the 
trapper.  "  No,  a  hunter  has  no  right  to  desart  his 
dog  when  danger  be  nigh;  for  the  Creator  has  made 
'em  in  their  loves  and  their  dangers,  ahke.  Did  ye 
save  the  powder  and  the  bullits,  boy?  " 

"  I  did  not,"  responded  Herbert;  "  the  sparks  were 
all  around  me  and  the  shanty  was  smoking  while  I  was 


84  DRAMATIC  NARRATIVE 

feeling  around  for  the  dogs'  leash.  I  heard  the  can- 
ister explode  before  I  reached  the  first  bend." 

"  'Twas  a  narrer  rub,  boy,"  rejoined  the  trapper. 
"  Yis,  I  can  see  'twas  a  narrer  rub  ye  had  of  it,  and 
the  holes  in  yer  shirt  show  that  the  sparks  was  fallin' 
pritty  thick  and  pritty  hot,  too,  when  ye  come  out 
of  the  shanty.  How  does  the  stroke  tell  on  ye,  boy?  " 
continued  the  old  man,  interrogatively.  "  Ye  be 
pullin'  a  slashin'  stroke,  ye  see,  and  there's  five  mile 
more  of  it,  ef  there's  a  rod." 

"  The  stroke  begins  to  tell  on  my  left  side,"  an- 
swered Herbert;  "  but  if  you  were  sitting  where  you 
could  see  what's  coming  down  upon  us  as  I  can,  you 
would  see  it  w^asn't  any  time  for  us  to  take  things 
leisurely." 

"  Lord,  boy,"  rejoined  the  trapper,  "  do  ye  think  I 
haven't  any  ears?  The  fire's  at  the  fourth  bend 
above  us  and  the  pines  on  the  ridge  we  passed  five 
minutes  ago  ought  to  be  blazin'  by  this  time.  Ah  me, 
boy,  this  isn't  the  fust  time  I've  run  a  race  with  a 
fire  of  the  devil's  own  kindlin',  alone  and  in  company, 
both.  And  my  ears  have  measured  the  roar  and  the 
cracklin'  ontil  I  can  tell  to  a  rod,  eenamost,  how  fur 
the  red  line  be  behind  me." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  our  chances?  "  queried  his 
companion;  "  shall  we  get  over  the  carry  in  time?  for 
I  suppose  we  are  making  for  the  big  pool,  are  we 
not?" 

"  Yis,  we  be  makin'  for  the  pool,"  replied  the  trap- 
per, "  for  it's  the  only  safe  spot  on  the  river;  and  as 
for  the  chances,  I  sartinly  doubt  ef  we  can  fetch  the 
carry  in  time.     Ef  the  fire  isn't  there  ahead  of  us,  it 


THE    RACE   WITH    THE   FLAMES  85 

will  be  on  us  afore  we  could  git  to  the  pool  at  the 
other  eend." 

"  Why  can't  we  run  the  rapids?  "  asked  Herbert 
promptly. 

"  The  smoke,  boy,  the  smoke,"  was  the  answer. 
"  The  smoke  will  be  there  ahead  of  us.  And  who  can 
run  a  stretch  of  water  like  the  one  ahead  yender,  with 
his  eyes  blinded?  No,  boy,  we  must  git  there  ahead 
of  the  fire,  for  we  can't  run  the  rapids  in  the  smoke. 
Here,"  he  added,  "  ye  be  pullin'  a  murderin'  stroke, 
and  it's  best  that  I  spell  ye.  Down  with  ye,  pups,  down 
with  ye,  and  lie  still  as  a  frozen  otter  while  the  boy 
comes  over  ye." 

With  the  celerity  of  long  practice  in  boating,  the 
two  men  changed  places,  and  with  such  quickness  was 
the  change  in  position  effected,  that  the  onrushing 
shell  scarcely  lessened  its  headway.  The  trapper  seized 
the  oars  on  the  instant,  while  Herbert  supported  him 
with  equal  swiftness  with  the  paddle  and  the  light 
craft  raced  along  like  a  feather  blown  by  the  gale. 

For  several  moments  the  trapper,  who,  by  the 
change  in  his  position  was  brought  face  to  face  with 
the  pursuing  fire,  said  not  a  word.  His  stroke  was 
long  and  sweeping  and  pulled  with  an  energy  which 
only  perfect  skill  and  tremendous  strength  can  put 
into  action.  He  looked  at  the  rolling  flames  with  a 
face  undisturbed  in  its  calmness  and  with  eyes  that 
noted  knowingly  every  sign  of  its  progress. 

"  The  fire  is  a  hot  un,"  he  said  at  length,  "  and  it 
runs  three  feet  to  our  two.  We  may  git  there  ahead 
of  it,  for  there  isn't  more  than  a  mile  furder  to  go; 
but — Lord!"  exclaimed  the  trapper^  "how  it  roars! 


86  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

and  it  makes  its  own  wind  as  it  comes  on.  Don't 
break  yer  paddle  shaft,  boy;  but  the  shaft  is  a  good 
un  and  ye  may  put  all  the  strength  into  it  that  ye 
think  it  will  stand." 

The  spectacle  on  which  the  trapper  was  gazing  was, 
indeed,  a  terrible  one;  and  the  peril  of  the  two  men 
was  getting  to  be  extreme.  The  valley,  through  the 
centre  of  which  the  river  ran,  was  perhaps  a  mile  in 
width,  at  which  distance  a  range  of  lofty  hills  on  either 
side  walled  it  in.  Down  this  enclosed  stretch  the  fire 
was  being  driven  by  a  wind  which  sent  the  blazing 
evidences  of  its  approach  in  advance  of  its  terrible 
progress.  The  spectacle  was  indescribable.  The 
dreadful  line  of  flame  moved  onward  like  a  line  of 
battle,  when  it  moves  at  a  charge  against  a  flying  en- 
emy. The  hungry  flames  ate  up  the  woods  as  a  mon- 
ster might  eat  food  when  starving.  Grasses,  shrubs, 
bushes,  thickets  of  undergrowth  and  the  great  trees, 
which  stood  in  groves  over  the  level  plain  on  either 
side  of  the  stream,  disappeared  at  its  touch  as  if  swal- 
lowed up.  The  evergreens  crackled  and  flamed  fiery 
hot.  The  smoke  eddied  up  in  rushing  volumes.  Over- 
head, and  far  in  advance  of  the  onrolling  line  of  fire, 
the  air  was  darkened  with  black  cinders,  amid  whose 
sombre  masses  fiery  sparks  and  blazing  brands  shone 
and  flashed  like  falling  stars. 

A  deer  suddenly  sprang  from  the  bank  into  the  river 
ahead  of  the  boat  and,  frenzied  with  fear,  swam  boldly 
athwart  its  course.  He  was  followed  by  another  and 
another.  Birds  flew  shrieking  through  the  air.  Even 
the  river  animals  swam  uneasily  along  the  banks,  or 
peered  out  of  their  holes,  as  if  nature  had  communi- 


THE    RACE   WITH    THE   FLAMES  &7 

cated  to  them,  also,  the  terrible  alarm;  while,  like  the 
roar  of  a  cataract — dull,  heavy,  portentous — the  wrath 
of  the  tiamcs  rolled  ominously  through  the  air. 

Amid  the  sickening  smoke  which  was  already  roll- 
ing in  volumes  over  the  boat  and  the  terrible  uproar 
and  confusion  of  nature,  Herbert  and  the  trapper  kept 
steadily  to  their  task.  But  every  moment  the  line  of 
fire  gained  on  them.  The  smoke  was  already  at  in- 
tervals stifling  and  the  heat  of  the  coming  conflagra- 
tion getting  unbearable.  Brands  began  to  fall  hissing 
into  the  water.  Twice  had  Herbert  flung  a  blazing 
fragment  out  of  the  boat.  And  so,  in  a  race  literally 
for  life,  with  the  flames  chasing  them  and  their  lives 
in  jeopardy,  they  turned  the  last  bend  above  the  carry 
which  began  at  the  head  of  the  rapids.  But  it  was 
too  late;  the  fiery  fragments  blown  ahead  by  the  high 
wind  had  fallen  in  front  of  them,  and  the  landing  at 
the  carry  itself  was  actually  enveloped  in  smoke  and 
flame. 

"  The  fire  be  ahead  of  us,  boy !  "  exclaimed  the 
trapper,  "  and  death  is  sartinly  comin'  behind.  The 
odds  be  agin  us  to  start  with,  for  the  smoke  is  thick 
and  the  fire  will  be  in  the  bends  at  least  half  the  way 
down,  but  it's  our  only  chance;  w'e  must  run  the 
rapids." 

"  What  about  the  dogs?  " 

"  The  pups  must  shirk  for  themselves,"  answered 
the  old  man.  "  I'm  sorry,  but  the  rapids  be  swift  and 
the  waters  shaller  on  the  first  half  of  the  stretch.  And 
the  pups  settle  the  boat  half  an  inch,  ef  they  settle  it 
a  hair.  Yis,  overboard  with  ye,  pups !  overboard  with 
ye !  "  commanded  the  trapper.    "  Ye  must  use  the  gifts 


88  DRAMATIC   NARRA'l'iVE 

the  Lord  has  gin  ye  now,  or  git  singed.  Yer  best 
chance  is  to  foller  the  boat,  as  I  jedge." 

The  trapper  had  continued  to  talk  as  if  addressing 
members  of  the  human  and  not  the  canine  species; 
and  long  before  he  had  finished  his  remarks,  the 
hounds  had  taken  to  the  water  and  were  swimming 
with  all  their  power  directly  in  the  wake  of  the  boat, 
as  if  they  had  actually  understood  their  master's  in- 
junction, and  were,  indeed,  determined  to  shoot  the 
rapids  in  his  wake. 

The  conflagration  was  now  at  its  fiercest  heat.  The 
smoke  whirled  upward  in  mighty  eddies  or  rolled 
along  in  huge  convolutions.  Through  the  fleecy  rolls 
here  and  there  tongues  of  flame  shot  fiercely.  The 
river  steamed.  The  roar  of  the  rushing  flames  was 
deafening.  The  tops  of  the  huge  pines  that  stood 
along  the  banks  would  wave  and  toss  as  the  fiery  line 
reached  them,  and  then  burst  into  blaze,  as  if  they 
were  but  the  mighty  torches  that  lighted  the  path  of 
the  passing  destruction.  In  all  his  long  eventful  life, 
passed  amid  peril,  it  is  doubtful  if  the  trapper  had 
ever  been  in  a  wilder  scene.  The  rapids  were  ahead 
and  the  fire  behind  and  on  either  side.  The  great 
mass  of  flame  had  not  yet  rolled  abreast  the  boat,  but 
the  blazing  brands  were  already  falling  in  advance. 
It  w'as  not  a  moment  to  hesitate;  nor  was  he  a  man 
to  falter  when  action  was  called  for. 

By  this  time  the  boat  had  come  nigh  the  upper  rift 
of  the  rapids,  and  the  motion  of  the  downward  suction 
was  beginning  to  tell  on  its  progress.  The  trapper 
shipped  his  oars  and,  lifting  his  paddle,  placed  him- 
self ip  a  kneeling  posture,  gazing  down  stream.     The 


THE   RACE   WITH   THE   FLAMES  89 

fire  was  almost  upon  them,  and  the  smoke  too  dense 
for  siglit.  But  pressing-  as  was  the  emergency,  neither 
man  touched  his  paddle  to  the  water,  but  let  the  boat 
go  down  with  the  quickening  current  to  the  verge 
of  the  rapids,  where  the  sharp  dip  of  the  decline  would 
send  it  living. 

'*  This  be  an  onsartin  ventur',  Henry,"  cried  the 
trapper,  shouting  to  his  comrade  from  the  smoke  that 
now  made  it  impossible  for  the  young  man,  even  at 
only  the  boat's  length,  to  see  his  person.  "  This  be 
an  onsartin  ventur',  and  the  Lord  only  knows  how 
it  will  eend.  Ye  know  the  waters  as  well  as  I  do;  and 
ye  know  the  p'ints  where  things  must  be  did  right. 
We'll  beat  the  smoke  arter  we  make  the  fust  dip  and 
git  out  of  the  thickest  of  it  in  the  fust  half  of  the  dis- 
tance, onless  somethin'  happens.  Let  her  go  with 
the  current,  boy,  ontil  yer  sight  comes  to  ye,  for  the 
current  knows  wdiere  it's  goin',  and  that's  more  than 
a  mortal  can  tell  in  this  infarnal  smoke.  Here  we  go, 
boy !  "  shouted  the  old  man,  as  the  boat  balanced  in 
its  perilous  flight  on  the  sharp  edge  of  the  uppermost 
rift.  "  Llere  we  go,  boy!"  he  shouted  out  of  the 
smoke  and  the  rush  of  waters,  "  it's  hotter  than  Tophet 
where  we  be  and  it  matters  mighty  leetle  what  meets 
us  below." 

To  those  who  have  had  no  experience  in  running 
rapids,  no  adequate  conception  can  be  given  touch- 
ing what  can  with  truth  be  called  one  of  the  most  ex- 
citing experiences  that  man  can  pass  through.  The 
very  velocity  with  which  the  flight  is  made  is  enough 
of  itself  to  make  the  sensation  startlinsf.     The  skill 


90  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

which  is  required  on  the  part  of  the  boatman  is  of  the 
finest  order.  Eye  and  hand  and  readiest  wit  must 
work  in  swift  connection.  Some  who  read  these  Hnes 
perhaps  have — shall  we  say — enjoyed  the  sensation 
which  we  have  always  found  impossible  to  describe 
in  words?  These,  at  least,  will  appreciate  the  difficulty 
of  our  task,  and  also  the  peril  which  surrounded  the 
trapper  and  his  companion. 

The  first  flight  down  which  the  boat  glanced  was 
a  long  one.  The  river-bed  sloped  away  in  a  straight 
direction  for  nigh  on  to  fifty  rods,  and  at  an  angle 
so  steep  that  the  water,  although  the  bottom  was 
rough,  fairly  flattened  itself  as  it  ran;  and  the  chan- 
nel where  the  current  was  the  deepest  gave  forth  a  ser- 
pentine sound  as  it  whizzed  downward.  The  smoke, 
which  hung  heavily  over  the  stretch  from  shore  to 
shore,  was  too  dense  for  the  eye  to  penetrate  a  yard. 
Amid  the  smoke  sparks  floated,  and  brands,  crackling 
as  they  fell,  plunged  through  it  into  the  steaming 
water.  Guidance  of  the  frail  craft  was,  as  the  trap- 
per had  predicted,  out  of  the  question;  the  two  men 
could  only  keep  their  position  as  they  went  stream- 
ing downward.  They  kept  their  seats  like  statues, 
knowing  well  that  their  safety  lay  in  allowing  their 
light  shell  to  follow,  without  the  least  interruption, 
the  pressure  of  the  swift  current. 

Half  down  the  flight  the  volume  of  smoke  was 
parted,  by  some  freak  of  the  wind,  from  shore  to  shore, 
and  for  a  couple  of  rods  they  saw  the  water,  the  blaz- 
ing banks,  the  fiery  tree-tops  and  each  other.  The 
trapper  turned  his  face,  'blackened  and  stained  by  the 
grimy  cinders,  toward  his  companion  and  gave  one 


THE   RACE    WITH    THE   FLAMES  Qg 

glance,  in  which  humor  and  excitement  were  equally 
mingled.  His  mouth  was  open,  but  the  words  were 
lost  in  the  roar  of  the  flame  and  the  rush  of  the  water. 
He  had  barely  time  to  toss  a  hand  upward,  as  if  by 
gesture  he  would  make  good  the  impossibility  of 
speech,  before  face  and  hand  alike  faded  from  Her- 
bert's eyes  as  the  boat  plunged  again  into  the  smoke. 

The  next  instant  the  boat  launched  down  the  final 
pitch  of  the  declivity  and  shot  far  out  into  the  smooth 
water  that  eddied  in  a  huge  circle  in  the  pool  below. 
The  smoke  was  at  this  point  less  compact,  for  through 
it  the  blazing  pines  on  either  side  flamed  partially  into 
view. 

"  It's  the  devil's  own  work,  boy,  for  sartin,"  cried 
the  trapper,  "  and  the  fool  or  the  knave  that  started 
the  fire  oughter  be  toasted.  I  trust  the  pups  will  be 
reasonable  and  come  down  with  the  current.  Has  the 
fire  touched  ye  anywhere?  " 

"  Not  much,"  answered  Herbert.  "  A  brand  struck 
me  on  the  shoulder  and  opened  a  hole  in  my  shirt — - 
that's  all.     How  do  you  feel?" 

"  Fried,  boy;  yis,  actally  fried.  Ef  this  infarnal  heat 
lasts,  I'll  be  ready  to  turn  afore  we  reach  the  second 
bend." 

"  How  goes  the  stream  below?  "  asked  Herbert.  , 

*'  All  clear  for  a  while,"  answered  the  trapper,  "  all 
clear  for  a  while.  Put  yer  strength  into  the  paddle  till 
we  come  to  the  varge  below,  for  the  fire  be  runnin' 
fast,  and  it's  agin  reason  for  a  mortal  to  stand  this 
heat  long." 

"  Shall  we  run  out  of  the  smoke  at  the  next  flight?  " 
asked  Herbert. 


92  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

"  I  think  so,  boy;  I  think  so,"  answered  the  trap- 
per. "  The  maples  grow  to  the  bank  at  the  foot  of 
the  next  dip,  and  it  isn't  in  the  natur'  of  hard  wood 
to  make  smoke  hke  a  balsam." 

He  would  have  said  more,  but  his  companion  had 
nodded  to  him  as  he  had  ended  the  sentence,  for  they 
had  come  to  the  last  flight  of  the  rapids,  and  the  great 
pool  lay  glimmering  through  the  branches  of  the  trees 
below. 

The  old  man  knew  what  was  meant  and  said :  "  I 
know  it,  boy,  I  know  it.  Take  the  east  run,  for  the 
water  be  deeper  that  way,  and  the  boat  sets  deep. 
I  won't  trouble  ye,  for  ye  know  the  way.  Lord !  how 
the  water  biles !  Now's  yer  time,  boy, — to  the  right 
with  ye !  to  the  right !  Sweep  her  round  and  let  her 
go!" 

Away  and  downward  swept  the  boat.  The  strong 
eddies  caught  it,  but  the  controlling  paddle  was 
stronger  than  the  eddies  and  kept  it  to  the  line  of  its 
safest  descent.  Past  rocks  that  stood  in  mid  current, 
against  which  the  swift-going  water  beat  and  dashed 
— past  mossy  banks  and  shadowed  curves  where  the 
great  eddies  whirled — down  over  miniature  falls  into 
bubbles  and  froth  the  light  craft  swept,  and  with  a 
final  plunge  and  leap  jumped  the  last  cascade,  and, 
darting  out  into  the  great  basin,  ran  shoreward- 
saved  1 


JEAN  VALJEAN  AND  THE  BISHOP 

VICTOR    HUGO 

An  hour  before  sunset,  on  the  evening  of  a  day  in 
the  beginning  of  October,  1815,  a  man  travelling  afoot 

entered  the  little  town  of  D .    It  would  have  been 

hard  to  find  a  passer-by  more  wretched  in  appearance. 
A  slouched  leather  cap  half  hid  his  face,  bronzed  by 
the  sun  and  wind,  and  dripping  with  sweat.  He  wore 
a  cravat  twisted  like  a  rope;  coarse  blue  trousers, 
worn  and  shabby,  white  on  one  knee  and  with  holes 
in  the  other;  an  old,  ragged,  gray  blouse  patched  on 
one  side  with  a  piece  of  green  cloth  sewed  with  twine; 
upon  his  back  was  a  well-filled  knapsack;  in  his  hand 
he  carried  an  enormous  knotted  stick;  his  stocking- 
less  feet  were  in  hobnailed  shoes;  his  hair  was  cropped 
and  his  beard  long. 

The  traveller  turned  his  steps  toward  an  inn,  which 
'yas  the  best  in  the  place,  and  went  at  once  into  the 
kitchen.  The  host,  hearing  the  door  open  and  a  new- 
comer enter,  said,  without  raising  his  eyes  from  his 
ranges : 

"  What  will  monsieur  have?  " 

"  Something  to  eat  and  lodging." 

"  Nothing  more  easy,"  said  mine  host,  but  on  turn- 
ing his  head  and  taking  an  observation  of  the  traveller, 
he  added,  "  for  pay." 


94  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

The  man  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  leather  purse 
and  answered: 

"  I  have  money." 

"  Then,"  said  mine  host,  "  I  am  at  your  ser- 
vice." 

The  man  put  his  purse  back  into  his  pocket,  took 
off  his  knapsack  and  put  it  down  hard  by  the  door, 
and,  holding  his  stick  in  his  hand,  sat  down  on  a 
low  stool  by  the  fire. 

However,  as  the  host  passed  backward  and  forward, 
he  kept  a  careful  eye  on  the  traveller. 

"  Is  dinner  almost  ready?  "  said  the  man. 

"  Directly,"  said  mine  host. 

While  the  new-comer  was  warming  himself  with  his 
back  turned  the  worthy  innkeeper  took  a  pencil  from 
his  pocket  and  then  tore  off  the  corner  of  an  old  paper 
which  he  pulled  from  a  little  table  near  the  window. 
On  the  margin  he  wrote  a  line  or  two,  folded  it,  and 
handed  the  scrap  of  paper  to  a  boy  who  ran  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  mayor's  office. 

The  traveller  saw  nothing  of  this. 

He  asked  a  second  time:    "  Is  dinner  ready?  " 

"  Yes;   in  a  few  moments,"  said  the  host. 

Tlie  boy  came  back  with  the  paper.  The  host  un- 
folded it  hurriedly,  as  one  who  is  expecting  an  answer. 
He  seemed  to  read  with  attention,  then,  throwing  his 
head  on  one  side,  thought  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
took  a  step  toward  the  traveller,  who  seemed  drowned 
in  troublous  thought. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "  I  cannot  receive  you." 

The  traveller  half  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Why?    Are  you  afraid  I  shall  not  pay  you,  or  do 


JEAN   VAIJEAN   AND    THK    BISHOP  95 

you  want  me  to  pay  in  advance?  1  have  money,  I  tell 
you." 

"  It  is  not  that." 

"What  then?" 

"  I  have  no  room." 

"  Well,  put  me  in  the  stable,"  quietly  replied  the 
man. 

"  I  cannot." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  the  horses  take  all  the  room." 

"  Well,"  responded  the  man,  "  a  corner  in  the  gar- 
ret; a  truss  of  straw — we  will  see  about  that  after 
dinner." 

"  I  cannot  give  you  any  dinner." 

This  declaration,  made  in  a  measured  but  firm  tone, 
appeared  serious  to  the  traveller.     He  got  up. 

"  Ah,  bah !  but  I  am  dying  with  hunger.  I  have 
walked  since  sunrise;  I  have  travelled  twelve  leagues. 
I  will  pay,  and  I  want  something  to  eat." 

"  I  have  nothing,"  said  the  host. 

The  man  burst  into  a  laugh  and  turned  toward  the 
fire-place  and  the  ranges. 

"  Nothing!   and  all  that?  " 

"  All  that  is  engaged." 

The  man  sat  down  again  and  said,  without  raising 
his  voice:  "  I  am  at  an  inn.  I  am  hungry,  and  I  shall 
stay." 

The  host  bent  down  to  his  ear  and  said,  in  a  voice 
which  made  him  tremble : 

"  Go  away  !  Shall  I  tell  you  your  name?  your  name 
is  Jean  Valjean;  now,  shall  I  tell  you  ivJio  you  are? 
When  I  saw  you  enter  I  suspected  something.     I  sent 


g6  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

to  the  mayor's  office,  and  here  is  the  reply.  Can  you 
read?  "  So  saying,  he  held  toward  him  the  open  paper, 
which  had  just  come  from  the  mayor.  The  man  cast 
a  look  upon  it;  the  innkeeper,  after  a  short  silence, 
said:   "  It  is  my  custom  to  be  polite  to  all.     Go!  " 

The  man  bowed  his  head,  picked  up  his  knapsack, 
and  went  out. 

He  took  the  principal  street;  he  walked  at  ran- 
dom, slinking  near  the  houses  like  a  sad  and  humil- 
iated man ;  he  did  not  once  turn  around.  People  over- 
whelmed with  trouble  do  not  look  behind;  they  know 
only  too  well  that  misfortune  follows  them. 

He  walked  along  in  this  way  some  time,  going  by 
chance  down  streets  unknown  to  him,  and  forgetting 
fatigue,  as  is  the  case  in  sorrow.  Suddenly  he  felt  a 
pang  of  hunger;  night  was  at  hand,  and  he  looked 
around  to  see  if  he  could  not  discover  a  lodging. 

The  good  inn  was  closed  against  him;  he  sought 
some  humble  tavern,  some  poor  cellar. 

Just  then  a  light  shone  at  the  end  of  the  street;  he 
saw  a  pine  branch  hanging  by  an  iron  bracket  against 
the  white  sky  of  the  twilight.  He  went  thither.  It 
was  a  tavern. 

The  traveller  stopped  a  moment  and  looked  in  at 
the  little  window  upon  the  low  hall  of  the  tavern, 
lighted  by  a  small  lamp  upon  a  table  and  a  great  fire 
in  the  chimney-place.  Some  men  were  drinking  and 
the  host  was  warming  himself;  an  iron  pot  hung  over 
the  fire  seething  in  the  blaze. 

Two  doors  lead  into  this  tavern,  which  is  also  a  sort 
of  eating-house — one  from  the  street,  the  other  from  a 
small  court  full  of  rubbish. 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    THE    BISHOP  9? 

The  traveller  did  not  dare  to  enter  by  the  street 
door;  he  slipped  into  the  court,  stopped  again,  then 
timidly  raised  the  latch  and  pushed  open  the  door. 

"  Who  is  it?  "  said  the  host. 

"  One  who  wants  supper  and  a  bed." 

"  All  right;    here  you  can  sup  and  sleep." 

He  went  in;  all  the  men  who  w^ere  drinking  turned 
toward  him;  the  lamp  shining  on  one  side  of  his  face, 
the  firelight  on  the  other,  they  examined  him  for  some 
time  as  he  was  taking  off  his  knapsack. 

The  host  said  to  him:  "  There  is  the  fire;  the  sup- 
per is  cooking  in  the  pot;  come  and  warm  yourself, 
comrade." 

He  seated  himself  near  the  fire-place  and  stretched 
his  feet  out  toward  the  fire,  half  dead  with  fatigue;  an 
inviting  odor  came  from  the  pot.  All  that  could  be 
seen  of  his  face  under  his  slouched  cap  assumed  a 
vague  appearance  of  comfort,  which  tempered  the  sor- 
rowful aspect  given  him  by  long-continued  suffering. 

However,  one  of  the  men  at  the  table  was  a  fisher- 
man who  had  put  up  his  horse  at  the  stable  of  the. 
inn  before  entering  the  tavern.  He  beckoned  to  the 
tavern-keeper  to  come  to  him,  which  he  did.  They 
exchanged  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice;  the  traveller 
had  again  relapsed  into  thought. 

The  tavern-keeper  returned  to  the  fire,  and,  laying 
his  hand  roughly  on  his  shoulder,  said,  harshly: 

"  You  are  going  to  clear  out  from  here !  " 

The  stranger  turned  round  and  said,  mildly: 

"Ah!    Do  you  know?" 

"  Yes." 

"  They  sent  me  away  from  the  other  inn/' 


98  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  And  we  turn  you  out  of  this." 

"  Where  would  you  have  me  go?  " 

"  Somewhere  else." 

The  man  took  up  his  stick  and  knapsack  and  went 
off.  As  he  went  out  some  children  who  had  followed 
him  from  the  Croix-dc-Colbas  and  seemed  to  be  wait- 
ing for  him  threw  stones  at  him.  He  turned  angrily 
and  threatened  them  with  his  stick,  and  they  scattered 
like  a  flock  of  birds. 

He  passed  the  prison;  an  iron  chain  hung  from  the 
door  attached  to  a  bell.     He  rang. 

The  grating  opened. 

"  M.  Turnkey,"  said  he,  taking  off  his  cap  respect- 
fully, "  will  you  open  and  let  me  stay  here  to-night?  " 

A  voice  answered : 

"A  prison  is  not  a  tavern;  get  yourself  arrested 
and  we  w-ill  open." 

The  grating  closed. 

Night  came  on  apace;  the  cold  Alpine  winds  were 
blowing;  by  the  light  of  the  expiring  day  the  stranger 
■perceived  in  one  of  the  gardens  which  fronted  the 
street  a  kind  of  hut  which  seemed  to  be  made  of  turf; 
he  boldly  cleared  a  wooden  fence  and  found  himself 
in  the  garden.  He  was  suffering  both  from  cold  and 
hunger.  He  had  resigned  himself  to  the  latter;  but 
there,  at  least,  was  a  shelter  from  the  cold.  These 
huts  are  not  usually  occupied  at  night.  He  got  down 
and  craw'led  into  the  hut.  It  was  warm  there,  and  he 
found  a  good  bed  of  straw.  He  rested  a  moment  upon 
this  bed,  motionless  from  fatigue;  then,  as  his  knap- 
sack on  his  back  troubled  him,  and  it  would  make  a 
good  pillow,  he  began  to  unbuckle  the  straps.     Just 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  99 

then  lie  heard  a  ferocious  growling-,  and  looking  up 
saw  the  head  of  an  enormous  bull-dog  at  the  opening 
of  the  hut. 

It  was  a  dog-kennel! 

He  was  himself  vigorous  and  formidable;  seizing  his 
stick  he  made  a  shield  of  his  knapsack,  and  got  out 
of  the  hut  as  best  he  could,  but  not  without  enlarg- 
ing the  rents  of  his  already  tattered  garments. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening;  as  he 
did  not  know  the  streets  he  walked  at  hazard. 

So  he  came  to  the  prefecture,  then  to  the  seminary; 
on  passing  by  the  cathedral,  he  shook  his  fist  at  it. 

Exhausted  with  fatigue,  and  hoping  for  nothing  bet- 
ter, he  lay  down  on  a  stone  bench  in  the  cathedra! 
square. 

Just  then  an  old  woman  came  out  of  church.  She 
saw  the  man  lying  there  in  the  dark,  and  said : 

"  What  are  you  doing  there,  my  friend?  " 

He  replied,  harshly,  and  wath  anger  in  his  tone : 

"  You  see,  my  good  woman,  I  am  going  to  sleep." 

"  Upon  the  bench?  "  said  she. 

"  For  nineteen  years  I  have  had  a  wooden  mattress," 
said  the  man;    "  to-night  I  have  a  stone  one." 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  the  inn?  " 

"  Because  I  have  no  money." 

"  Alas !   I  have  only  four  sous  in  my  purse." 

"  Give  them,  then."  The  man  took  the  four  sous 
and  the  woman  continued : 

"  You  cannot  find  lodging  for  so  little  in  an  inn. 
But  have  you  tried?  You  cannot  pass  the  night  so. 
You  must  be  cold  and  hungry.  They  should  give  you 
lodging  for  charitv-" 


lOO  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  I  have  knocked  at  every  door." 

''Well,  what  then?" 

"  Everybody  has  driven  me  away." 

The  good  woman  touched  the  man's  arm  and 
pointed  out  to  him,  on  the  other  side  of  the  square,  a 
little  low  house  beside  the  bishop's  palace. 

"  You  have  knocked  at  every  door?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes." 

"  Have  you  knocked  at  that  one  there?  " 

"  No." 

"  Knock  there." 

At  the  bishop's  house,  his  housekeeper,  Mme.  Ma- 
gloire  was  saying: 

"  We  say  that  this  house  is  not  safe  at  all;  and,  if 
monseigneur  will  permit  me,  I  will  go  on  and  tell 
the  locksmith  to  come  aiid  put  the  old  bolts  in  the 
door  again.  I  say  than  a  door  which  opens  by  a  latch 
on  the  outside  to  the  first  comer,  nothing  could  be 
more  horrible;  and  then  monseigneur  has  the  habit 
of  always  saying:  '  Come  in,'  even  at  midnight.  But, 
my  goodness,  there  is  no  need  to  even  ask  leave " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  violent  knock  on  the 
door. 

"  Come  in !  "  said  the  bishop. 

The  door  opened. 

It  opened  quickly,  quite  wide,  as  if  pushed  by  some- 
one boldly  and  with  energy. 

A  man  entered. 

That  man  we  know  already;  it  was  the  traveller 
we  have  seen  wandering  about  in  search  of  a  lodging. 

He  came  in,  took  one  step,  and  paused,  leaving  tVic 
door  open  behind  him.     He  had  his  knapsack  on  his 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  lOl 

back,  his  stick  in  liis  hand,  and  a  rough,  hard,  and 
fierce  look  in  his  eyes.     He  was  hideous. 

The  bishop  looked  upon  the  man  with  a  tranquil 
eye.  As  he  was  opening  his  mouth  to  speak,  doubt- 
less to  ask  the  stranger  what  he  wanted,  the  man,  lean- 
ing with  l)oth  hands  on  his  club,  glanced  from  one  to 
another  in  turn,  and,  without  waiting  for  the  bishop 
to  speak,  said,  in  a  loud  voice : 

"  See  here !  My  name  is  Jean  Valjean.  I  am  a 
convict;  I  have  been  nineteen  years  in  the  galleys. 
Four  days  ago  I  was  set  free,  and  started  for  Pontar- 
lier;  during  these  four  days  I  have  w'alked  from  Tou- 
lon. To-day  I  have  walked  twelve  leagues.  When  I 
reached  this  place  this  evening  I  went  to  an  inn,  and 
they  sent  me  away  on  account  of  my  yellow  passport, 
which  I  had  shown  at  the  mayor's  office,  as  was  neces- 
sary. I  went  to  another  inn;  they  said:  '  Get  out!' 
It  was  the  same  with  one  as  with  another;  nobody 
would  have  me,  I  went  to  the  prison  and  the  turn- 
key would  not  let  me  in.  I  crept  into  a  dog-kennel, 
the  dog  bit  me,  and  drove  me  away  as  if  he  had  been 
a  man;  you  would  have  said  that  he  knew  who  I  was. 
I  went  into  the  fields  to  sleep  beneath  the  stars;  there 
were  no  stars.  I  thought  it  would  rain,  and  there  was 
no  good  God  to  stop  the  drops,  so  I  came  back  to  the 
town  to  get  the  shelter  of  some  doorway.  There  in 
the  square  I  laid  down  upon  a  stone;  a  good  woman 
showed  me  your  house,  and  said :  '  Knock  there ! '  I 
have  knocked.  What  is  this  place?  Are  you  an  inn? 
I  have  money;  my  savings,  109  francs  and  fifteen  sous, 
which  I  have  earned  in  the  galleys  by  my  work  for 
nineteen  years.     I  will  pay.    What  do  I  care?    I  have 

LISRA!?Y 

UNIVERSITY  O;-  CALIFORNIA 

r>i\  /mcir\r: 


I02  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

money.  I  am  very  tired — twelve  leagues  on  foot— 
and  I  am  so  hungry.     Can  I  stay?  " 

"  Mme.  Magloire,"  said  the  bishop,  "  put  on  an- 
other plate." 

The  man  took  three  steps  and  came  near  the  lamp 
which  stood  on  the  table.  "  Stop,"  he  exclaimed;  as 
if  he  had  not  been  understood;  "  not  that,  did  you 
understand  me?  I  am  a  galley  slave — a  convict — I  am 
just  from  the  galleys."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
large  sheet  of  yellow  paper,  which  he  unfolded. 
"  There  is  my  passport,  yellow,  as  you  see.  That  is 
enough  to  have  me  kicked  out  wherever  I  go.  Will 
you  read  it?  See,  here  is  what  they  have  put  in  my 
passport:  '  Jean  Valjean,  a  liberated  convict;  has  been 
nineteen  years  in  the  galleys;  five  years  for  burglary; 
fourteen  years  for  having  attempted  four  times  to  es- 
cape. This  man  is  very  dangerous.'  There  you  have 
it!  Everybody  has  thrust  me  out;  will  you  receive 
me?  Is  this  an  inn?  Can  you  give  me  something  to 
eat  and  a  place  to  sleep?    Have  you  a  stable?  " 

"'  Mme.  Magloire,"  said  the  bishop,  "  put  some 
sheets  on  the  bed  in  the  alcove." 

The  bishop  turned  to  the  man: 

"  Monsieur,  sit  down  and  warm  yourself;  we  are 
going  to  take  supper  presently,  and  your  bed  will  be 
made  ready  while  you  sup." 

At  last  the  man  quite  understood;  his  face,  the  ex- 
pression of  which  till  then  had  been  gloomy  and  hard, 
now  expressed  stupefaction,  doubt  and  joy,  and  be- 
came absolutely  wonderful.  He  began  to  stutter  like 
a  madman. 

"True?    What?     You  will  keep  me?    you  won't 


JEAN  VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  IO3 

drive  nie  away — a  convict?  You  call  me  monsieur 
and  don't  say,  *  Get  out,  dog" ! '  as  everybody  else  does. 
I  shall  have  a  supper!  a  bed  like  other  people,  with 
mattress  and  sheets — a  bed !  It  is  nineteen  years  that 
I  have  not  slept  on  a  bed.  You  are  good  people  !  Be- 
sides, I  have  money;  I  will  pay  well.  I  beg  your  par- 
don, M.  Innkeeper,  what  is  your  name?  I  will  pay 
all  you  say.  You  are  a  fine  man.  You  are  an  inn- 
keeper, ain't  you?  " 

"  I  am  a  priest  who  lives  here,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  A  priest,"  said  the  man.  "  Oh,  noble  priest ! 
Then  you  do  not  ask  any  money?  " 

*'  No,"  said  the  bishop,  "  keep  your  money.  How 
much  have  you?  " 

"  One  hundred  and  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sous,"  said 
the  man. 

"  One  hundred  and  nine  francs  and  fifteen  sous. 
And  how  long  did  it  take  you  to  earn  that?  " 

"  Nineteen  years." 

"  Nineteen  years !  " 

The  bishop  sighed  deeply,  and  shut  the  door,  w-hich 
had  been  left  wide  open. 

Mme.  Magloire  brought  in  a  plate  and  set  it  on  the 
table. 

'*  Mme.  Magloire,"  said  the  bishop,  "  put  this  plate 
as  near  the  fire  as  you  can."  Then  turning  toward 
his  guest,  he  added :  "  The  night  wind  is  raw  in  the 
Alps;   you  must  be  cold,  monsieur." 

Every  time  he  said  the  word  monsieur  with  his  gently 
solemn  and  heartily  hospitable  voice  the  man's  counte- 
nance lighted  up.  ]\Ionsieur  to  a  convict  is  a  glass 
of  water  to  a  man  dying  of  thirst  at  sea. 


I04  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  The  lamp/*  said  the  bishop,  "  gives  a  very  poor 
light." 

Mme.  Magloire  understood  him,  and,  going  to  his 
bedchamber,  took  from  the  mantel  the  two  silver  can- 
dlesticks, lighted  the  candles  and  placed  them  on  the 
table. 

"  M.  le  Cure,"  said  the  man,  "  you  are  good;  you 
don't  despise  me.  You  take  me  into  your  house;  you 
light  your  candles  for  me,  and  I  haven't  hid  from  you 
where  I  come  from,  and  how  miserable  I  am." 

The  bishop  touched  his  hand  gently  and  said :  "  You 
need  not  tell  me  who  you  are.  This  is  not  my  house; 
it  is  the  house  of  Christ.  It  does  not  ask  any  comer 
whether  he  has  a  name,  but  whether  he  has  an  afflic- 
tion. You  are  suffering;  you  are  hungry  and  thirsty; 
be  welcome.  And  do  not  thank  me;  do  not  tell  me 
that  I  take  you  into  my  house.  This  is  the  home  of 
no  man  except  him  who  needs  an  asylum.  I  tell  you, 
who  are  a  traveller,  that  you  are  more  at  home  here 
than  I ;  whatever  is  here  is  yours.  What  need  have 
I  to  know  your  name?  Besides,  before  you  told  me, 
I  knew  it." 

The  man  opened  his  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  Really?     You  knew  my  name?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  bishop,  "  your  name  is  my 
brother." 

"  Stop,  stop,  M.  le  Cure,"  exclaimed  the  man,  "  I 
was  famished  when  I  came  in,  but  you  are  so  kind 
that  now  I  don't  know  what  I  am;    that  is  all  gone." 

The  bishop  looked  at  him  again  and  said : 

"  You  have  seen  much  suffering?  " 

"  Oh,  the  red  blouse,  the  ball  and  chain,  the  plank 


JEAN   VAI.JEAN   AND   THE   JUSIIOP  I05 

to  sleep  on,  the  heat,  the  cold,  the  galley's  screw,  the 
lash,  the  double  chain  for  nothing,  the  dungeon  for  a 
word — even  when  sick  in  bed,  the  chain.  The  dogs, 
the  dogs  are  happier !  nineteen  years !  and  I  am  forty- 
six,  and  now  a  yellow  passport :  that  is  all." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  l)ishop,  "  you  have  left  a  place 
of  sufYering.  But  listen,  there  will  be  more  joy  in 
heaven  over  the  tears  of  a  repentant  sinner  than  over 
the  white  robes  of  a  hundred  good  men.  If  you  are 
leaving  that  sorrowful  place  with  hate  and  anger 
against  men,  you  are  Vvorthy  of  compassion;  if  you 
leave  it  with  good-will,  gentleness,  and  peace,  you  are 
better  than  any  of  us." 

Meantime  Mme.  Magloire  had  served  up  supper. 
The  bishop  said  the  blessing  and  then  served  the  soup 
himself,  according-  to  his  usual  custom.  The  man 
fell  to  eating  greedily. 

Suddenly  the  bishop  said :  "  It  seems  to  me  some- 
thing is  lacking  on  the  table." 

The  fact  was  that  Mme.  Magloire  had  set  out  only 
the  three  plates  which  were  necessary.  Now  it  was 
the  custom  of  the  house  when  the  bishop  had  any  one 
to  supper  to  sef  all  six  of  the  silver  plates  on  the  table. 

Mme.  Magloire  understood  the  remark;  without  a 
word  she  went  out,  and  a  moment  afterward  the  three 
plates  for  which  the  bishop  had  asked  were  shining 
on  the  cloth  symmetrically  arranged  before  each  of 
the  three  diners. 

After  supper  the  bishop  took  one  of  the  silver  can- 
dlesticks from  the  table,  handed  the  other  to  his  guest, 
and  said  to  him : 

*'  Monsieur,  I  will  show  you  to  your  room." 


lOO  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

The  man  followed  him. 

Just  as  they  were  passing  throngh  the  bishop's  room 
Mme.  Magloire  was  putting  up  the  silver  in  the  cup- 
board at  the  head  of  the  bed.  It  was  the  last  thing 
she  did  every  night  before  going  to  bed. 

The  bishop  left  his  guest  in  the  alcove  before  a 
clean,  white  bed.  The  man  set  down  the  candlestick 
upon  a  small  table. 

''  Come,"  said  the  bishop,  "  a  good  night's  rest  to 
you;  to-morrow  morning,  before  you  go,  you  shall 
have  a  cup  of  warm  milk  from  our  cows." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  man. 

Valjean  was  so  completely  exhausted  that  he  did 
not  even  avail  himself  of  the  clean  white  sheets;  he 
blew  out  the  candle  with  his  nostrils,  after  the  manner 
of  convicts,  and  fell  on  the  bed,  dressed  as  he  was, 
into  a  sound  sleep. 

A  few  moments  afterward  all  in  the  little  house  slept. 

As  the  cathedral  clock  struck  two,  Jean  Valjean 
awoke. 

He  had  slept  something  more  than  four  hours.  His 
fatigue  had  passed  away.  He  was  not  accustomed  to 
give  many  hours  to  repose. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  for  a  moment  into 
the  obscurity  about  him,  then  he  closed  them  to  go 
to  sleep  again.  Many  thoughts  came  to  him,  but  there 
was  one  which  continually  presented  itself,  and  which 
drove  away  all  others.  He  had  noticed  the  six  silver 
plates  and  the  large  ladle  that  Mme.  Magloire  had 
put  on  the  table. 

Those  six  silver  plates  took  possession  of  him. 
There  they  were  within  a  few  steps.     At  the  very 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  lO/ 

moment  that  he  passed  through  the  middle  room  to 
reach  the  one  he  was  now  in,  the  old  servant  was  plac- 
ing them  in  a  little  cupboard  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 
He  had  marked  that  cupboard  well;  on  the  right,  com- 
ing from  the  dining-room.  They  were  solid,  and  old 
silver.  With  the  big  ladle  they  would  bring,  at  least, 
200  francs;  double  what  he  had  got  for  nineteen  years' 
labor. 

His  mind  wavered  a  whole  hour  and  a  long  one,  in 
fluctuation  and  in  struggle.  The  clock  struck  three. 
All  at  once  he  stooped  down,  took  off  his  shoes  and 
put  them  softly  upon  the  mat  in  front  of  the  bed,  then 
he  resumed  his  thinking  posture  and  was  still  again. 

He  continued  in  this  situation  and  would,  perhaps, 
have  remained  there  until  daybreak,  if  the  clock  had 
not  struck  the  quarter  or  the  half-hour.  The  clock 
seemed  to  say  to  him,  "  Come  along !  " 

He  rose  to  his  feet,  hesitated  for  a  moment  longer 
and  listened;  all  was  still  in  the  house;  he  walked 
straight  and  cautiously  toward  the  window.  On 
reaching  the  window  Jean  Valjean  examined  it.  It  had 
no  bars,  opened  into  the  garden,  and  was  fastened, 
according  to  the  fashion  of  the  country,  with  a  little 
wedge  only.  He  opened  it;  but  as  the  cold,  keen  air 
rushed  into  the  room  he  closed  it  again  immediately. 
He  looked  into  the  garden  with  that  absorbed  look 
which  studies  rather  than  sees.  The  garden  was  in- 
closed with  a  white  wall,  quite  low  and  readily  scaled. 

When  he  had  taken  this  observation  he  turned  like 
a  man  whose  mind  is  made  up,  went  to  his  alcove,  took 
his  knapsack,  opened  it,  fumbled  in  it,  took  out  some- 
thing which  he  laid  upon  the  bed,  put  his  shoes  into 


I08  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

one  of  his  pockets,  tied  up  his  bundle,  swung  it  upon 
his  shoulders,  put  on  his  cap,  and  pulled  the  vizor 
down  over  his  eyes,  felt  for  his  stick,  and  went  and  put 
it  in  the  corner  of  the  window,  then  returned  to  the 
bed,  and  resolutely  took  up  the  object  which  he  had 
laid  on  it.  It  looked  like  a  short  iron  bar,  pointed 
at  one  end  hke  a  spear.    It  was  a  miner's  drill. 

He  took  the  drill  in  his  right  hand,  and,  holding  his 
breath,  with  stealthy  steps  he  moved  toward  the  door 
of  the  next  room,  which  was  the  bishop's.  On  reach- 
ing the  door  he  found  it  unlatched.  The  bishop  had 
not  closed  it. 

Jean  Valjean  listened.  Not  a  sound.  He  pushed 
the  door.  He  pushed  it  lightly  with  the  end  of  his 
finger,  with  the  stealthy  and  timorous  carefulness  of  a 
cat.  He  waited  a  moment  and  then  pushed  the  door 
again  more  boldly.  Then  a  third  time,  harder  than 
before.  He  listened.  Nothing  was  stirring  in  the 
house.  He  took  one  step  and  was  in  the  room.  A 
deep  calm  filled  the  chamber.  At  the  further  end  of 
the  room  he  could  hear  the  equal  and  c|uiet  breath- 
ing of  the  sleeping  bishop.  Suddenly  he  stopped;  he 
was  near  the  bed;  he  had  reached  it  sooner  than  he 
thought. 

At  the  moment  when  Jean  Valjean  paused  before 
the  bed  a  ray  of  moonlight  crossing  the  high  window, 
suddenly  lighted  up  the  bishop's  pale  face.  He  slept 
tranquilly.  His  entire  countenance  was  lit  up  with  a 
vague  expression  of  content,  hope,  and  happiness.  It 
was  more  than  a  smile  and  almost  a  radiance. 

Jean  Valjean  was  in  the  shadow  with  the  iron  drill 
in  his  hand,  erect,  motionless,  terrified  at  this  radiant 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    TITE    BISHOP  IO9 

figure.  He  had  never  seen  anything  comparable  to 
it.  This  confidence  filled  him  with  fear.  He  did  not 
remove  his  eyes  from  the  old  man.  The  only  thing 
which  was  plain  from  his  attitude  and  his  countenance 
was  a  strange  indecision.  You  would  have  said  he 
was  hesitating  between  two  realms — that  of  the 
doomed  and  that  of  the  saved.  He  appeared  ready 
either  to  cleave  this  skull  or  to  kiss  this  hand. 

In  a  few  moments  he  raised  his  left  hand  slowly  to 
his  forehead  and  took  oft'  his  hat;  then,  letting  his  hand 
fall  with  the  same  slowness,  Jean  Valjean  resumed  his 
contemplations,  his  cap  in  his  left  hand,  his  club  in  his 
right,  and  his  hair  bristling  on  his  fierce-looking  head. 

Under  this  frightful  gaze  the  bishop  still  slept  in 
profoundest  peace. 

The  crucifix  above  the  mantel-piece  was  dimly  vis- 
ible in  the  moonlight,  apparently  extending  its  arms 
toward  both,  with  a  benediction  for  one  and  a  pardon 
for  the  other. 

Suddenly  Jean  Valjean  put  on  his  cap,  then  passed 
quickly,  without  looking  at  the  bishop,  along  the  bed, 
straight  to  the  cupboard  which  he  perceived  near  its 
head;  he  raised  the  drill  to  force  the  lock;  the  key 
was  in  it;  he  opened  it;  the  first  thing  he  saw  was 
the  basket  of  silver,  he  took  it,  crossed  the  room  with 
hasty  stride,  careless  of  noise,  reached  the  door,  en- 
tered the  oratory,  took  his  stick,  stepped  out,  put  the 
silver  into  his  knapsack,  threw  away  the  basket,  ran 
across  the  garden,  leaped  over  the  wall  like  a  tiger 
and  fled. 

The  next  day  at  sunrise  the  bishop  was  walking  in 
the  garden.    Mme.  Magloire  ran  toward  him  quite  be- 


no  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

side  herself.  "  Monseigneur,  monseigneur,"  cried  she, 
"  does  your  greatness  know  where  the  silver  basket 
is^" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  bishop. 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  said  she;  "  I  did  not  know  what 
had  become  of  it." 

The  bishop  had  just  found  the  basket  on  a  flower- 
bed. He  gave  it  to  Mme.  Magloire  and  said:  "  There 
it  is." 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  but  there  is  nothing  in  it.  The 
silver?  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  bishop,  "  it  is  the  silver,  then,  that 
troubles  you.     I  do  not  know  where  that  is." 

"Good  heavens!  it  is  stolen.  The  man  who  came 
last  night  stole  it." 

And  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  with  all  the  agility 
of  which  her  age  was  capable,  Mme.  Magloire  ran  to 
the  oratory,  went  into  the  alcove,  and  came  back  to 
the  bishop.  "Monseigneur,  the  man  has  gone!  the 
silver  is  stolen !  " 

Just  as  the  bishop  was  rising  from  the  table  there 
was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  bishop. 

The  door  opened.  A  strange,  fierce  group  appeared 
on  the  threshold.  Three  men  were  holding  a  fourth 
by  the  collar.  The  three  men  were  gendarmes;  the 
fourth,  Jean  Valjean. 

A  brigadier  of  gendarmes,  who  appeared  to  head  the 
group,  was  near  the  door.  He  advanced  toward  the 
bishop,  giving  a  military  salute.  Mgr.  Bienvenu  ap- 
proached as  quickly  as  his  great  age  permitted. 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  III 

"  Ah,  there  you  are !  "  said  he,  looking  toward  Jean 
Valjean,  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  But  I  gave  you  the 
candlesticks  also,  which  are  silver  like  the  rest,  and 
would  bring  200  francs.  Why  did  you  not  take  them 
along  with  your  plates?  " 

Jean  Valjean  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  at  the 
bishop  with  an  expression  which  no  human  tongue 
could  describe. 

"  Monseigneur,"  said  the  brigadier,  "  then  wdiat  this 
man  said  was  true?  We  met  him.  He  was  going  like 
a  man  who  was  running  away  and  we  arrested  him  in 
order  to  see.    He  had  this  silver." 

"  And  he  told  you,"  interrupted  the  bishop,  with  a 
smile,  "  that  it  had  been  given  him  by  a  good  old 
priest  with  whom  he  had  passed  the  night.  I  see  it  all. 
And  you  brought  him  back  here?    It  is  all  a  mistake." 

"  If  that  is  so,"  said  the  brigadier,  "  we  can  let  him 
go." 

''  Certainly,"  replied  the  bishop. 

The  gendarmes  released  Jean  Valjean,  who  shrank 
back. 

"  Is  it  true  that  they  let  me  go?  "  he  said  in  voice 
almost  inarticulate,  as  if  he  were  speaking  in  his  sleep. 

"  Yes !  you  can  go.  Do  you  not  understand?  "  said 
a  gendarme. 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  bishop,  "  before  you  go  away 
here  are  your  candlesticks;    take  them." 

He  went  to  the  mantel-piece,  took  the  two  candle- 
sticks and  brought  them  to  Jean  Valjean.  Jean  Val- 
jean was  trembling  in  every  limb.  He  took  the  two 
candlesticks  mechanically  and  with  a  wild  appearance. 

"  Now,"  said  the  bishop,  "  go  in  peace.    By  the  way, 


112  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

my  friend,  when  you  come  again  you  need  not  come 
through  the  garden.  You  can  ahvays  come  in  and  go 
out  by  the  front  door.  It  is  closed  only  with  a  latch, 
day  or  night." 

Then  turning  to  the  gendarmes,  he  said : 

"  Messieurs,  you  can  retire."  The  gendarmes  with- 
drew. 

Jean  Valjean  felt  like  a  man  who  is  just  about  to 
faint. 

The  bishop  approached  him  and  said,  in  a  low  voice  : 

"  Forget  not,  never  forget  that  you  have  promised 
me  to  use  this  silver  to  become  an  honest  man." 

Jean  Valjean,  who  had  no  recollection  of  this  prom- 
ise, stood  confounded.  The  bishop  had  laid  much 
stress  upon  these  words  as  he  uttered  them.  He  con- 
tinued, solemnly : 

"  Jean  Valjean,  my  brother,  you  belong  no  longer 
to  evil,  but  to  good.  It  is  your  soul  that  I  am  buying 
for  you.  I  withdraw  it  from  dark  thoughts  and  from 
the  spirit  of  perdition  and  I  give  it  to  God !  " 

Jean  Valjean  w^ent  out  of  the  city  as  if  he  were  escap- 
ing. He  made  all  haste  to  get  into  the  open  country, 
taking  the  first  lanes  and  by-paths  that  offered,  with- 
out noticing  that  he  was  every  moment  retracing  his 
steps.  He  wandered  thus  all  the  morning.  He  had 
eaten  nothing,  but  he  felt  no  hunger.  He  was  the  prey 
of  a  multitude  of  new  sensations.  He  felt  somewhat 
angry,  he  knew  not  against  whom.  He  could  not  have 
told  whether  he  was  touched  or  humiliated.  There 
came  over  him,  at  times,  a  strange  relenting  which  he 
struggled  with  and  to  which  he  opposed  the  harden- 
ing of  his  last  twenty  years. 


JEAN    VALJEAN   AND    THE   BISHOP  II3 

At  this  moment  a  boy  stepped  out  of  the  thicket 
without  seeing  Jean  Valjean  and  tossed  up  a  handful 
of  sous;  until  this  time  he  had  skilfully  caught  the 
whole  of  them  upon  the  back  of  his  hand. 

This  time  the  forty-sou  piece  escaped  him  and  rolled 
toward  the  thicket,  near  Jean  \  aljean. 

Jean  Valjean  put  his  foot  upon  it. 

The  boy,  however,  had  followed  the  piece  with  his 
eye,  and  had  seen  where  it  went. 

He  was  not  frightened,  and  walked  straight  to  the 
man. 

It  was  an  entirely  solitary  place.  Far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  there  was  no  one  on  the  plain  or  in  the 
path. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  little  Savoyard,  with  that  child- 
ish confidence  which  is  made  up  of  ignorance  and  inno- 
cence, '*  my  piece?  " 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  said  Jean  Valjean. 

'*  Petit  Gervais,  monsieur." 

**  Get  out,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  boy,  "  give  me  my  piece." 

Jean  Valjean  dropped  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

The  child  began  again : 

"  My  piece,  monsieur!  " 

Jean  Valjean's  eyes  remained  fixed  on  the  ground. 

"  My  piece!  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  "  my  white  piece! 
my  silver !  " 

Jean  Valjean  did  not  appear  to  understand.  The 
boy  took  him  by  the  collar  of  his  blouse  and  shook 
him.  And  at  the  same  time  he  made  an  effort  to 
move  the  big,  iron-soled  shoe  which  was  placed  upon 
his  treasure. 


114  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

"  I  want  my  piece !   my  forty-sou  piece !  " 

The  child  began  to  cry.  Jean  Valjean  raised  his 
head.  He  still  kept  his  seat.  His  look  was  troubled. 
He  looked  upon  the  boy  with  an  air  of  wonder,  then 
reached  out  his  hand  toward  his  stick,  and  exclaimed, 
in  a  terrible  voice:    "  Who  is  there?  " 

"  Me,  monsieur,"  answered  the  boy.  "  Petit  Ger- 
vais !  me  !  me  !  give  me  my  forty  sous,  if  you  please ! 
Take  away  your  foot,  monsieur,  if  you  please."  Then, 
becoming  angry,  small  as  he  was,  and  almost  threaten- 
ing: 

"  Come,  now,  will  you  take  away  your  foot?  Why 
don't  you  take  away  your  foot?  " 

"  Ah !  you  are  here  yet !  "  said  Jean  Valjean,  and, 
rising  hastily  to  his  feet,  without  releasing  the  piece 
of  money,  he  added:  "You'd  better  take  care  of 
yourself!  " 

The  boy  looked  at  him  in  terror,  then  began  to 
tremble  from  head  to  foot,  and  after  a  few  seconds  of 
stupor  took  to  flight  and  ran  with  all  his  might,  with- 
out daring  to  turn  his  head  or  to  utter  a  cry. 

At  a  little  distance,  however,  he  stopped  for  want 
of  breath,  and  Jean  Valjean,  in  his  reverie,  heard  him 
sobbing. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  boy  was  gone. 

The  sun  had  gone  down. 

The  shadows  were  deepening  around  Jean  Valjean. 
He  had  not  eaten  during  the  day;  probably  he  had 
some  fever. 

He  had  remained  standing  and  had  not  changed  his 
attitude  since  the  child  fled.  His  breathing  was  at 
long  and  unequal  intervals.     His  eyes  were  fixed  on 


JEAN   VAIJEAN   AND   THE   BISHOP  II5 

a  spot  ten  or  twelve  steps  before  him,  and  seemed  to 
be  studying  with  profound  attention  the  form  of  an 
old  piece  of  blue  crockery  that  was  lying  in  the  grass. 
All  at  once  he  shivered;  he  began  to  feel  the  cold 
night-air. 

He  pulled  his  cap  down  over  his  forehead,  sought 
mechanically  to  fold  and  button  his  blouse  around  him, 
stepped  forward  and  stooped  to  pick  up  his  stick. 

At  that  instant  he  perceived  the  forty-sou  piece 
which  his  foot  had  half  buried  in  the  ground,  and  which 
glistened  among  the  pebbles.  It  was  like  an  electric 
shock.  "  What  is  that?  "  said  he,  between  his  teeth. 
He  drew  back  a  step  or  two,  then  stopped  without  the 
power  to  withdraw  his  gaze  from  this  point  which  his 
foot  had  covered  the  instant  before,  as  if  the  thing 
that  glistened  there  in  the  obscurity  had  been  an  open 
eye  fixed  upon  him. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  sprang  convulsively  toward 
the  piece  of  money,  seized  it,  and,  rising,  looked  away 
over  the  plain,  straining  his  eyes  toward  all  points  of 
the  horizon,  standing  and  trembling  like  a  frightened 
deer  which  is  seeking  a  place  of  refuge. 

He  saw  nothing.  Night  was  falling,  the  plain  was 
cold  and  bare,  thick  purple  mists  were  rising  in  the 
glimmering  twilight. 

He  said:  "  Oh !  "  and  began  to  walk  rapidly  in  the 
direction  in  which  the  child  had  gone.  After  some 
thirty  steps  he  stopped,  looked  about,  and  saw  noth- 
ing. 

Then  he  called  with  all  his  might :  "  Petit  Gervais ! 
Petit  Gervais !  " 

And  then  he  listened. 


Il6  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  country  was  desolate  and  gloomy.  On  all  sides 
was  space.  There  was  nothing  about  him  but  a 
shadow,  in  which  his  gaze  was  lost,  and  a  silence,  in 
which  his  voice  was  lost. 

He  began  to  walk  again,  then  quickened  his  pace  to 
a  run,  and  from  time  to  time  stopped  and  called  out 
in  that  terrible  solitude,  in  a  most  terrible  and  desolate 
voice : 

"  Petit  Gervais !     Petit  Gervais ! '' 

But  doubtless  the  boy  was  already  far  away. 

He  met  a  priest  on  horseback.  He  went  up  to  him 
and  said : 

"  M.  le  Cure,  have  you  seen  a  child  go  by?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  priest. 

"  Petit  Gervais  was  his  name." 

"  I  have  seen  nobody." 

He  took  two  five-franc  pieces  from  his  bag  and  gave 
them  to  the  priest. 

"  M.  le  Cure,  this  is  for  your  poor.  M.  le  Cure,  he 
is  a  little  fellow,  about  ten  years  old,  I  think.  He 
went  this  way." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him." 

Jean  Valjean  hastily  took  out  two  more  five-franc 
pieces  and  gave  them  to  the  priest. 

"  For  your  poor,"  said  he. 

Then  he  added,  wildly : 

"  M.  I'Abbe,  have  me  arrested;  I  am  a  robber." 

The  priest  put  spurs  to  his  horse  and  fled  in  great 
fear. 

Jean  Valjean  began  to  run  again  in  the  direction 
which  he  had  first  taken. 


JEAN   VALJEAN   AND    THE   BISHOP  II7 

He  w€nt  on  in  this  wise  for  a  considerable  distance, 
looking-  around,  calling-  and  shouting,  but  met  nobody 
else.  Finally,  at  a  place  where  three  paths  met,  he 
stopped.  The  moon  had  risen.  He  strained  his  eyes 
in  the  distance  and  called  out  once  more :  "  Petit  Ger- 
vais !  Petit  Gervais !  Petit  Gervais !  "  His  cries  died 
away  into  the  mist  without  even  awakening  an  echo. 
Again  he  murmured:  "Petit  Gervais!"  but  with  a 
feeble  and  almost  inarticulate  voice.  That  was  his 
last  effort;  his  knees  suddenly  bent  under  him,  as 
if  an  invisible  power  overwhelmed  him  at  a  blow,  with 
the  weight  of  his  bad  conscience;  he  fell  exhausted 
upon  a  great  stone,  his  hands  clinched  in  his  hair,  and 
his  face  on  his  knees,  and  exclaimed :  "  What  a  wretch 
I  am !  " 

Then  his  heart  swelled  and  he  burst  into  tears.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  wept  for  nineteen  years. 

Jean  Valjean  wept  long.  He  shed  hot  tears,  he  wept 
bitterly,  with  more  weakness  than  a  woman,  with  more 
terror  than  a  child.  He  beheld  his  life,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  horrible;  his  soul,  and  it  seemed  to  him  fright- 
ful. There  was,  however,  a  softened  light  upon  that 
life  and  upon  that  soul.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was 
looking  upon  Satan  by  the  light  of  paradise. 

How  long  did  he  weep  thus?  What  did  he  do  after 
weeping?  Where  did  he  go?  Nobody  ever  knew.  It 
is  known  simply  that,  on  that  very  night,  the  stage- 
driver,  as  he  passed  through  the  bishop's  street,  saw, 
kneeling  upon  the  pavement  in  the  shadow,  before  the 
door  of  the  bishop's  house,  a  man  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer. 


PATHETIC 

THE  OLD  MAN 

EUGENE    FIELD 

I  called  him  the  Old  Alan,  but  he  wiizn't  an  old 
man;  he  wuz  a  little  boy  —  our  fust  one;  'nd  his 
gran'ma,  who'd  had  a  heap  of  experience  in  sich  mat- 
ters, allowed  that  he  wuz  for  looks  as  Hkely  a  child 
as  she'd  ever  clapped  eyes  on.  Bein'  our  fust,  we  sot 
our  hearts  on  him,  and  Lizzie  named  him  Willie,  for 
that  wuz  the  name  she  liked  best,  havin'  had  a  brother 
Willyum  killed  in  the  war.  But  I  never  called  him 
anything  but  the  Old  Man,  and  that  name  seemed  to 
fit  him,  for  he  wuz  one  of  your  solium  babies, — alwuz 
thinkin'  'nd  thinkin'  'nd  thinkin',  like  he  wuz  a  jedge, 
and  when  he  laft'ed  it  wuzn't  like  other  children's  laffs, 
it  wuz  so  sad-like. 

Lizzie   'nd   I   made  it  up  between   us  that   when 

the  Old  Alan  growed  up  we'd  send  him  to  collige  'nd 

give  him  a  lib'ril  edication,  no  matter  though  we  had 

to  sell  the  farm  to  do  it.     But  we  never  cud  exactly 

agree  as  to  what  we  was  goin'  to  make  of  him;   Lizzie 

havin'  her  heart  sot  on  his  bein'  a  preacher  Hke  his 

gran'pa  Baker,  and  I  wantin'  him  to  be  a  lawyer  'nd 

git  rich  out'n  the  corporations,  like  his  uncle  Wilson 

119 


I20  PATHETIC 

Barlow.  So  we  never  come  to  no  definite  conclusion 
as  to  what  the  Old  Man  wuz  goin'  to  be  bime  by; 
but  while  we  wuz  thinkin'  'nd  debatin'  the  Old  Man 
kep'  growin'  'nd  growin',  and  all  the  time  he  wuz  as 
serious  'nd  solium  as  a  jedge. 

Lizzie  got  jest  wrapt  up  in  that  boy;  toted  him 
round  ever'where  'nd  never  let  on  like  it  made  her 
tired, — powerful  big  'nd  hearty  child  too,  but  heft 
warn't  nothin'  'longside  of  Lizzie's  love  for  the  Old 
Man.  When  he  caught  the  measles  from  Sairy  Bax- 
ter's baby  Lizzie  sot  up  day  'nd  night  till  he  wuz  well, 
holdin'  his  hands  'nd  singin'  songs  to  him,  'nd  cryin' 
herse'f  almost  to  death  because  she  dassent  give  him 
cold  water  to  drink  when  he  called  f'r  it.  iVs  for  me, 
;//y  heart  wuz  w-rapt  up  in  the  Old  Man,  too,  but,  bein' 
a  man,  it  wuzn't  for  me  to  show  it  like  Lizzie,  bein'  a 
woman;  and  now  that  the  Old  Man  is — wall,  now  that 
he  has  gone,  it  wouldn't  do  to  let  on  how  much  I 
sot  by  him,  for  that  would  make  Lizzie  feel  all  the 
wuss. 

Sometimes,  when  I  think  of  it,  it  makes  me  sorry 
that  I  didn't  show  the  Old  Man  some  way  how  much 
I  wuz  wrapt  up  in  him.  Used  to  hold  him  in  my  lap 
'nd  make  faces  for  him  'nd  alder  whistles  'nd  things; 
sometimes  Ld  kiss  him  on  his  rosy  cheek,  wdien  no- 
body wuz  lookin';  oncet  I  tried  to  sing  him  a  song, 
but  it  made  him  cry,  'nd  I  never  tried  my  hand  at 
singin'  again.  But,  somehow,  the  Old  Man  didn't 
take  to  me  like  he  took  to  his  mother :  would  climb 
down  outern  my  lap  to  git  where  Lizzie  wuz;  would 
hang  on  to  her  gownd,  no  matter  what  she  wuz  doin', 
— whether  she  was  makir"  br-ad,  or  sewin',  or  put- 


THE   OLD    MAN  121 

tin'  up  pickles,  it  wuz  alwiiz  the  same  to  the  Old  Man; 
he  wnzn't  happy  unless  he  wuz  right  there,  clost  be- 
side his  mother. 

Most  all  boys,  as  I've  heern  tell,  is  proud  to  be 
round  with  their  father,  doin'  what  he  does  'nd  wearin' 
the  kind  of  clothes  he  wears.  But  the  Old  Man  wuz 
difif'rent;  he  allowed  that  his  mother  wuz  his  best 
friend,  'nd  the  way  he  stuck  to  her — wall,  it  has  alwuz 
been  a  great  comfort  to  Lizzie  to  recollect  it. 

The  Old  Alan  had  a  kind  of  confidin'  way  with  his 
mother.  Every  oncet  in  a  while,  when  he'd  be  playin' 
by  hisself  in  the  front  room,  he'd  call  out,  "  Mudder, 
mudder;  "  and  no  matter  where  Lizzie  wuz, — in  the 
kitchen,  or  in  the  wood-shed,  or  in  the  yard,  she'd  an- 
swer: "  What  is  it,  darlin'?  "  Then  the  Old  Man  'ud 
say :  "  Tum  here,  mudder,  I  wanter  tell  you  sumfin'." 
Never  could  find  out  what  the  Old  Man  wanted  to 
tell  Lizzie;  like's  not  he  didn't  wanter  tell  her  nothin'; 
may  be  he  wuz  lonesome  'nd  jest  wanted  to  feel  that 
Lizzie  wuz  round.  But  that  didn't  make  no  diff'rence; 
it  wuz  all  the  same  to  Lizzie.  No  matter  where  she 
wuz  or  what  she  wuz  a-doin',  jest  as  soon  as  the  Old 
Man  told  her  he  wanted  to  tell  her  somethin'  she 
dropped  ever'thing  else  'nd  went  straight  to  him. 
Then  the  Old  Man  would  laff  one  of  his  solium,  sad- 
like  laffs,  'nd  put  his  arms  round  Lizzie's  neck  'nd 
whisper — or  pertend  to  whisper — somethin'  in  her  ear, 
'nd  Lizzie  would  lafif  'nd  say,  "  Oh,  what  a  nice  secret 
we  have  atween  us !  "  and  then  she  would  kiss  the 
Old  Man  'nd  go  back  to  her  work. 

Time  changes  all  things, — all  things  but  memory, 
nothin'  ^an  change  that.    Seems  like  it  wuz  only  yes- 


122  PATHETIC 

terday  or  the  day  before  that  I  heern  the  Old  Man 
caHin',  "  Miidder,  mudder,  I  wanter  tell  you  sumfin','' 
and  that  I  seen  him  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  'nd 
whisper  softly  to  her. 

It  had  been  an  open  winter,  'nd  there  wuz  fever 
all  around  us.  The  Baxters  lost  their  little  girl,  and 
Homer  Thompson's  children  had  all  been  taken  down. 
Ev'ry  night  'nd  mornin'  we  prayed  God  to  save  our 
darlin';  but  one  evenin'  when  I  come  up  from  the 
wood  lot,  the  Old  Man  wuz  restless  'nd  his  face  wuz 
hot  'nd  he  talked  in  his  sleep.  May  be  you've  been 
through  it  yourself, — may  be  you've  tended  a  child 
that's  down  with  the  fever;  if  so,  may  be  you  know 
what  we  went  through,  Lizzie  'nd  me.  The  doctor 
shook  his  head  one  night  when  he  come  to  see  the 
Old  Man;  we  knew  what  that  meant.  I  went  out- 
doors,— I  couldn't  stand  it  in  the  room  there,  with 
the  Old  Man  seein'  'nd  talkin'  about  things  that  the 
fever  made  him  see.  I  wuz  too  big  a  coward  to  stay 
'nd  help  his  mother  to  bear  up;  so  I  went  out-doors 
'nd  brung  in  wood, — brung  in  wood  enough  to  last  all 
spring, — and  then  I  sat  down  alone  by  the  kitchen  fire 
'nd  heard  the  clock  tick  'nd  watched  the  shadders 
flicker  through  the  room. 

I  remember  Lizzie's  comin'  to  me  and  sayin' :  "  He's 
breathin'  strange-like,  'nd  his  little  feet  is  cold  as  ice." 
Then  I  went  into  the  front  chamber  where  he  lay.  The 
day  wuz  breakin';  the  cattle  wuz  lowin'  outside;  a 
beam  of  light  come  through  the  winder  and  fell  on  the 
Old  Man's  face, — perhaps  it  wuz  the  summons  for 
which  he  waited  and  which  shall  some  time  come  to 
me  'nd  you.    Leastwise  the  Old  Man  roused  from  his 


THE   OLD    MAN  12$ 

sleep  'nd  opened  up  his  big  blue  eyes  It  wuzn't  me 
he  wanted  to  see. 

"  Mudder !  mudder !  "  cried  the  Old  Man,  but  his 
voice  warn't  strong  'nd  clear  like  it  used  to  be.  "  Mud- 
der, where  be  you,  mudder?  " 

Then,  breshin'  by  me,  Lizzie  caught  the  Old  Man 
up  'nd  held  him  in  her  arms,  like  she  had  done  a  thou- 
sand times  before. 

"  What  is  it,  darlin'?    Here  I  be,"  says  Lizzie. 

"  Turn  here,"  says  the  Old  Man, — "  turn  here;  I 
wanter  tell  you  sumfin'." 

The  Old  Man  went  to  reach  his  arms  around  her  neck 
'nd  whisper  in  her  ear.  But  his  arms  fell  limp  and  help- 
less-like, 'nd  the  Old  Man's  curly  head  drooped  or 
his  mother's  breast. 


THE  SOUL  OF  THE  VIOLIN 

MARGARET    M.     MERRILL 

Scene. — A  dingy  attic-room  in  a  wretched  tenement.  A  bit  of  candle 
stuck  in  an  old  bottle  gives  a  faint,  gloomy  light ;  uncanny  shadows 
move  about  the  room ;  a  rickety  chair,  a  table,  a  pile  of  straw  that  serves 
for  a  bed.  A  man  stands  by  the  table  lifting  a  violin  from  its  case.  He 
touches  it  as  men  touch  the  things  they  love  best.  He  holds  it  against 
his  hunger-wasted  face,  and  talks  to  it  as  if  it  lived  and  understood  all 
he  said. 

"  It  has  come  at  last,  old  comrade,  it  has  come  at 
last — the  time  when  you  and  I  must  say  good-by. 
God  knows  I  wish  I  could  sell  myself  instead  of  you. 
But  I  am  worthless,  while  you — do  you  know,  my 
beauty?  A  Shylock  down  the  street,  the  man  who 
has  all  else  I  ow-n  save  you,  has  offered  me  five  hundred 
dollars  if  I  will  give  you  to  him — five  hundred  dollars 
to  a  man  who  has  not  a  coat  to  his  back,  a  roof  to 
cover  him,  or  a  crumb  of  bread  to  eat !  Why  do  I 
hesitate?  You  are  only  some  bits  of  wood  and  a  few 
trumpery  strings — not  much  for  a  man  to  starve  for. 
I  have  only  to  run  down  the  stairs  with  you — a  few 
steps  more — hand  you  over  the  counter — the  thing  is 
done;  and  I  have  five  hundred  dollars.  I  can  leave 
this  wretched,  rat-ridden  hole.  I  can  have  food  to 
eat  such  as  I  have  not  tasted  for  a  year.  I  can  mingle 
again  with  the  men  I  used  to  know.  I  can  be  one  of 
them.  Five  hundred  dollars !  Why.  that  is  wealth, 
wondrous  wealth !    And  all  for  you — you  thing  without 

124 


THE   SOUL   OF   THE   VIOLIN  1 25 

a  Stomach.  Yon  cannot  know  hunger,  you,  body  with- 
out a  soul.     Stay — am  I  sure  of  that?  " 

The  man  passes  his  fingers  over  the  strings  and 
bends  his  head  to  listen.  The  soft  vibrations  follow 
each  other  like  sweet,  half-forgotten  thoughts. 

"  Your  E-string  is  a  trifle  flat,"  says  the  man. 
"  Well,  it  doesn't  matter." 

He  rises  hastily,  possessed  by  a  sudden  determina- 
tion, opens  the  case,  and  is  about  to  thrust  the  violin 
inside,  when  he  stops.  A  faint  tremor  of  sound  is  still 
audible.  It  seems  almost  like  a  whisper  of  pain.  The 
man  lifts  the  violin  again  in  his  arms  and  lays  his 
cheek  upon  it. 

"What,  old  comrade,  does  it  hurt  you,  too?  Ah! 
I've  wronged  you.  You  have  a  heart.  You  can  feel. 
I  almost  believe  you  can  remember. 

"  Let  me  see.  How  long  has  it  been?  Twenty, 
thirty,  thirty-five  years.  Think  of  that,  old  comrade. 
Tliirty-five  years !  The  average  lifetime  of  man  we 
have  been  together.  And  I  knew  you  long  before  that. 
You  were  in  a  funny  old  shop,  kept  by  a  man  who 
had  owned  you  longer  than  I  have.  He  would  show 
you  to  the  people  who  came,  and  allowed  them  to  read 
your  inscription,  '  Cremona,  1731.'  But  he  would  not 
sell  you.  It  is  not  probable  that  he  was  ever  hungry. 
I  loved  you  then,  you  inanimate  thing  of  wood.  I 
loved  to  hold  you  and  hear  you  sing.  I  longed  for 
you,  as  I  had  never  longed  for  anything  before.  One 
day  the  old  man  sent  for  me. 

"  '  Bring  me  your  old  violin,'  he  said,  '  and  you  shall 
have  the  Cremona.' 

"  *  To  keep ! '  I  exclaimed. 


126  PATHETIC 

"  *  Yes,'  said  the  old  man,  '  to  keep.  For  I  am  sure 
you  will  keep  it.  I'm  old.  Someone  else  will  soon 
take  possession  here,  and  the  Cremona  might  be  sold 
into  strange  hands.  I  should  not  like  that.  I  would 
rather  give  it  to  you.' 

"  So  I  took  you  home  with  me  and  sat  up  half  the 
night  drawing  the  bow  softly  over  your  strings.  I 
was  the  happiest  boy  in  the  world,  I  think.  I  laid 
you  where,  if  I  waked  in  the  night,  I  could  reach  out 
and  touch  you.  I  would  not  have  taken  a  kingdom 
in  exchange  for  you  then.  Ah !  but  then  I  was  not 
hungry.    What  animals  we  are,  after  all !  " 

The  man  still  held  the  violin  against  his  cheek,  pass- 
ing his  hands  gently  along  the  strings,  and  talking  on 
in  a  dreamy  way,  as  if  he  scarcely  knew  that  he  spoke 
at  all. 

''  Thirty-five  years !  and  we  have  seen  the  world  to- 
gether. We  have  tasted 'its  sweets  and  its  bitterness. 
Kings  and  beggars  have  listened  to  you,  and  both 
have  loved  you. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  night  in  Berlin,  when  we 
played  the  '  Dream,'  and  the  beautiful  woman  in  the 
box  at  the  right  threw  a  great  red  rose?  It  caught 
upon  one  of  your  strings — caught  and  hung  by  a 
thorn.  And  when  I  tried  to  release  it,  the  blood-red 
petals  fell  in  a  shower  at  my  feet.  Then  we  played 
the  '  Last  Rose  of  Summer.'  I'm  sure  you  had  a 
heart  that  night.  I  could  feel  it  vibrate  with  the  quiver- 
ing of  your  strings.  There  were  tears  in  many  eyes 
when  we  had  finished,  and  she — I  think  the  music  had 
taken  possession  of  her.     For  she  rose,  crying  out: 

*' '  No,  no !     It  is  not  the  last,  the  world  is  full  of 


THE   SOUI.  OF  THE  VIOLIN  12/ 

roses.  See ! '  and  she  threw  a  great  armful  of  white 
and  red  blossoms. 

"  I  wonder  if  she  loved  me  best,  or  you?  It  was 
in  the  time  of  roses,  when  she.  the  rose  of  all  the 
world,  lay  dead.  You  must  remember  that,  old  com- 
rade. When  it  was  dark,  when  all  the  rest  had  gone 
and  left  her,  we  went  to  say  good-by.  The  world 
was  full  of  roses  then,  and  I  heaped  them  over  her. 
Then  you  sang.  Oh !  how  you  sang.  I  have  always 
believed  that  her  soul  was  borne  away  on  the  wings 
of  your  song,  carrying  the  perfume  of  the  roses  with 
it.  The  next  time  we  played,  someone  threw  a  rose 
and  I  set  my  heel  upon  it.  What  right  had  roses  to 
bloom  when  she  was  dead? 

"  We  have  done  badly  since  then,  you  and  I. 
Someway,  things  ceased  to  seem  worth  striving  for. 
And  you  have  been  dearer,  because  you  were  the  only 
one  who  knew  and  understood.  And  yet  I  said  you 
had  no  soul.  Forgive  me,  old  comrade!  A  man  is 
not  to  be  blamed  for  what  he  says  when  he's  hungry. 

"Ah,  what  a  fool  I  am;  maundering  away  to  an 
old  fiddle  when  I  might  be  filling  my  empty  stomach !  " 

The  man  sprang  up,  thrust  the  violin  rudely  into  its 
case,  closed  the  lid  with  a  bang,  seized  it  and  stopped, 
listening.  The  strings  were  quivering  from  his  rough 
handling.  He  heard  a  sigh,  faint  as  the  farewell  breath 
from  the  lips  of  a  loved  one  dying.  The  man  set  his 
feet  hard,  took  another  step,  stopped  again.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  clasped  the  violin  in  his  arms. 

"  No,  no,  I  cannot,  I  cannot.  I  will  not !  It  may 
be  folly;  it  is  folly.  It  is  madness.  No  matter.  I 
will  not  do  it,  I'm  not  hungry  now." 


128  PATHETIC 

The  man  opens  the  case,  hfts  the  violin  again,  and 
holds  it  in  his  arms  as  if  it  were  a  child. 

"  To  think  that  I  ever  dreamed  of  selling  you,  my 
treasure !  But  a  devil  prompted  me — the  demon  of 
hunger.  It  is  gone  now.  I  am  quite  content,  quite 
satisfied.  Come,  sing  to  me,  and  I  shall  be  altogether 
happy." 

The  man  raises  the  violin  and  draws  the  bow. 

"  Ah  !  that  E-string !  There — so — that  is  better. 
Now  we  are  all  right.  And  we  are  happy,  are  we 
not?  Sing  to  me  of  the  rose  and  of  her.  See!  she 
is  in  the  box  yonder,  all  among  her  blossoms.  She  is 
smiling  and  throwing  us  handfuls,  red  and  white.  We 
must  do  our  best,  our  very  best,  when  she  listens." 

The  man's  eyes  kindle  and  burn.  His  pale  cheeks 
flush.  Starvation  and  rags  are  far  away  and  forgotten 
things.  He  is  again  the  master  of  music.  The  foul 
attic-room  has  widened  and  brightened  into  a  great, 
glittering  amphitheatre,  wherein  thousands  sit,  breath- 
less under  the  spell  of  that  divine  melody.  The  man's 
soul  is  breathing  itself  upon  the  strings;  and  how 
they  respond!  They  shiver  with  sobs;  they  vibrate 
with  laughter;   they  shout  in  exultation. 

"Hear!  hear!  my  comrade!"  cries  the  man. 
"  Bravos !  encores !  Ah,  we  have  conquered  the 
world  to-night.  How  the  lights  glitter!  This  is  ec- 
stasy— this  is  heaven !  " 

Wilder  and  wilder  grows  the  music.  Faster  and 
faster  flies  the  bow. 

Snap  !    a  string  breaks.     Snap !    another. 

The  weird  strains  sink  to  a  wailing,  minor  key. 
The  arm  that  holds  the  bow  grows  unsteady.     The 


THE   SOUL   OF   THE   VIOLIN  I29 

wild  eyes  cease  their  feverish  shifting  and  fasten  them- 
selves upon  one  spot  at  the  right.  The  tense  features 
relax  into  a  smile.  The  voice  is  very  low  and  very 
tender. 

"  One  more  rose,  my  beauty,  my  queen  of  all  the 
world.  The  lights  are  growing  dim.  My  sight  is 
failing.     I  can  see  only  you,  only  you." 

Snap !     The  last  string  breaks. 

Scene. — The  same  as  at  first.  The  candle,  the  chair, 
the  table,  the  straw — yes,  and  the  man,  too.  But  he 
lies  prone  upon  his  face,  and  under  him  is  a  handful 
of  wooden  fragments,  upon  one  of  which  is  the  in- 
scription— 

"  Cremona,  1731." 


THROWN    AWAY* 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

To  rear  a  boy  under  what  parents  call  the  "  shel- 
tered life  system  "  is,  if  the  boy  must  go  into  the 
world  and  fend  for  himself,  not  wise.  Unless  he  be 
one  in  a  thousand  he  has  certainly  to  pass  through 
many  unnecessary  troubles;  and  may,  possibly,  come 
to  extreme  grief  simply  from  ignorance  of  the  proper 
proportions  of  things. 

Let  a  puppy  eat  the  soap  in  the  bath-room  or  chew 
a  newly  blacked  boot.  He  chews  and  chuckles  until, 
by  and  by,  he  finds  out  that  blacking  and  Old  Brown 
Windsor  make  him  very  sick;  so  he  argues  that  soap 
and  boots  are  not  wholesome.  Any  old  dog  about 
the  house  will  soon  show  him  the  unwisdom  of  bit- 
ing big  dogs'  ears.  Being  young,  he  remembers  and 
goes  abroad,  at  six  months,  a  well-mannered  little 
beast  with  a  chastened  appetite.  If  he  had  been  kept 
away  from  boots,  and  soap,  and  big  dogs  till  he  came 
to  the  trinity  full-grown  and  with  developed  teeth, 
just  consider  how  fearfully  sick  and  thrashed  he  would 
be !  Apply  that  notion  to  the  "  sheltered  life,"  and 
see  how  it  works.  It  does  not  sound  pretty,  but  it  is 
the  better  of  two  evils. 

There  was  a  Boy  once  who  had  been  brought  up 

*See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  552. 
130 


THROWN   AWAY  I3I 

under  the  "  sheltered  Hfe  "  theory;  and  the  theory 
killed  him  dead.  He  stayed  with  his  people  all  his 
days,  from  the  hour  he  was  born  till  the  hour  he 
went  into  Sandhurst  nearly  at  the  top  of  the  list.  He 
was  beautifully  tauglit  in  all  that  wins  marks  by  a 
private  tutor,  and  carried  the  extra  weight  of  "  never 
having  given  his  parents  an  hour's  anxiety  in  his  life." 
What  he  learnt  at  Sandhurst  beyond  the  regular  rou- 
tine is  of  no  great  consequence.  He  looked  about 
him,  and  he  found  soap  and  blacking,  so  to  speak, 
very  good.  He  ate  a  little,  and  came  out  of  Sand- 
hurst not  so  high  as  he  went  in.  Then  there  was  an 
interval  and  a  scene  with  his  people,  wdio  expected 
much  from  him.  Next  a  year  of  living  "  unspotted 
from  the  world  "'  in  a  third-rate  depot  battalion  where 
all  the  juniors  were  children,  and  all  the  seniors  old 
women;  and  lastly  he  came  out  to  India  where  he 
was  cut  ofif  from  the  support  of  his  parents,  and  had 
no  one  to  fall  back  on  in  time  of  trouble  except  him- 
self. 

Now  India  is  a  place  beyond  all  others  where  one 
must  not  take  things  too  seriously — the  midday  sun 
always  excepted.  Too  much  work  and  too  much  en- 
ergy kill  a  man  just  as  effectively  as  too  much  assorted 
vice  or  too  much  drink.  Flirtation  does  not  matter, 
because  every  one  is  being  transferred  and  either  you 
or  she  leave  the  Station,  and  never  return.  Good 
work  does  not  matter,  because  a  man  is  judged  by 
his  worst  output  and  another  man  takes  all  the  credit 
of  his  best  as  a  rule.  Bad  work  does  not  matter,  be- 
cause other  men  do  worse  and  incompetents  hang  on 
longer  in   India  than   anywhere   else.     Amusements 


132  PATHETIC 

do  not  matter,  because  you  must  repeat  them  as  soon 
as  you  have  accompHshecl  them  once,  and  most 
amusements  only  mean  trying  to  win  another  person's 
money.  Sickness  does  not  matter,  because  it's  all  in 
the  day's  work,  and  if  you  die  another  man  takes  over 
your  place  and  your  office  in  the  eight  hours  between 
death  and  burial.  Nothing  matters  except  Home-fur- 
lough and  acting  allowances,  and  these  only  because 
they  are  scarce.  This  is  a  slack,  kuidia  country  where 
all  men  work  with  imperfect  instruments;  and  the 
wisest  thing  is  to  take  no  one  and  nothing  in  earnest, 
but  to  escape  as  soon  as  ever  you  can  to  some  place 
where  amusement  is  amusement  and  a  reputation 
worth  the  having. 

But  this  Boy — the  tale  is  as  old  as  the  Hills — came 
out,  and  took  all  things  seriously.  He  was  pretty  and 
was  petted.  He  took  the  pettings  seriously,  and 
fretted  over  women  not  worth  saddling  a  •  pony  to 
call  upon.  He  found  his  new  free  life  in  India  very 
good.  It  does  look  attractive  in  the  beginning,  from 
a  Subaltern's  point  of  view — all  ponies,  partners,  danc- 
ing, and  so  on.  He  tasted  it  as  the  puppy  tastes  the 
soap.  Only  he  came  late  to  the  eating,  with  a  grow- 
ing set  of  teeth.  He  had  no  sense  of  balance — just 
like  the  puppy — and  could  not  understand  why  he  was 
not  treated  with  the  consideration  he  received  under 
his  father's  roof.     This  hurt  his  feelings. 

He  quarrelled  with  other  boys  and,  being  sensitive 
to  the  marrow,  remembered  these  quarrels,  and  -they 
excited  him.  He  found  whist,  and  gymkhanas,  and 
things  of  that  kind  (meant  to  amuse  one  after  office) 
good;  but  he  took  them  seriously  too,  just  as  he  took 


THROWN  AWAY  1 33 

the  "  head  "  that  followed  after  drink.  He  lost  his 
money  over  whist  and  gymkhanas  because  they  were 
new  to  him. 

He  took  his  losses  seriously,  and  wasted  as  much 
energy  and  interest  over  a  two-goldmohur  race  for 
maiden  ckka-ponies  with  their  manes  hogged,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  Derby.  One  half  of  this  came  from  in- 
experience— much  as  the  puppy  squabbles  with  the 
corner  of  the  hearthrug — and  the  other  half  from  the 
dizziness  bred  by  stumbling  out  of  his  quiet  life  into 
the  glare  and  excitement  of  a  livelier  one.  No  one 
told  him  about  the  soap  and  the  blacking,  because  an 
average  man  takes  it  for  granted  that  an  average  man 
is  ordinarily  careful  in  regard  to  them.  It  was  pitiful 
to  watch  The  Boy  knocking  himself  to  pieces,  as  an 
over-handled  colt  falls  down  and  cuts  himself  when 
he  gets  away  from  the  groom. 

This  unbridled  license  in  amusements  not  worth 
the  trouble  of  breaking  line  for,  much  less  rioting 
over,  endured  for  six  months — all  through  one  cold 
w'eather — and  then  we  thought  that  the  heat  and  the 
knowledge  of  having  lost  his  money  and  health  and 
Jamed  his  horses  would  sober  The  Boy  down,  and  he 
f;/Vould  stand  steady.  In  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a 
imdred  this  would  have  happened.  You  can  see  the 
•jrinciple  working  in  any  Indian  Station.  But  this  par- 
ticular case  fell  through  because  The  Boy  was  sensi- 
tive and  took  things  seriously — as  I  may  have  said 
some  seven  times  before.  Of  course,  we  couldn't  tell 
how  his  excesses  struck  him  personally.  They  were 
nothing  very  heart-breaking  or  above  the  average. 
He  might  be  crippled  for  life  financially,  and  want  a 


134  PATHETIC 

little  nursing.  Still  the  memory  of  his  performances 
would  wither  away  in  one  hot  weather,  and  the  shroff 
would  help  him  to  tide  over  the  money-troubles.  But 
he  must  have  taken  another  view  altogether  and  have 
believed  himself  ruined  beyond  redemption.  His 
Colonel  talked  to  him  severely  when  the  cold  weather 
ended.  That  made  him  more  wretched  than  ever;  and 
it  was  only  an  ordinary  "  Colonel's  wigging !  " 

What  follows  is  a  curious  instance  of  the  fashion 
in  which  we  are  all  linked  together  and  made  respon- 
sible for  one  another.  The  thing  that  kicked  the  beam 
in  The  Boy's  mind  was  a  remark  that  a  Vv^oman  made 
when  he  was  talking  to  her.  There  is  no  use  in  re- 
peating it,  for  it  was  only  a  cruel  little  sentence, 
rapped  out  before  thinking,  that  made  him  flush  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair.  He  kept  himself  to  himself  for 
three  days,  and  then  put  in  for  two  days'  leave  to  go 
shooting  near  a  Canal  Engineer's  Rest  House  about 
thirty  miles  out.  He  got  his  leave,  and  that  night  at 
Mess  was  noisier  and  more  ofl'ensive  than  ever.  He 
said  that  he  was  "  going  to  shoot  big  game,"  and  left 
at  half-past  ten  o'clock  in  an  ekka.  Partridge — which 
was  the  only  thing  a  man  could  get  near  the  Rest 
House — is  not  big  game;   so  every  one  laughed. 

Next  morning  one  of  the  Majors  came  in  from  short 
leave,  and  heard  that  The  Boy  had  gone  out  to  shoot 
"  big  game."  The  Major  had  taken  an  interest  in 
The  Boy,  and  had,  more  than  once,  tried  to  check  him 
in  the  cold  weather.  The  Major  put  up  his  eyebrows 
when  he  heard  of  the  expedition  and  went  to  The 
Boy's  rooms,  where  he  rummaged. 

Presently  he  came  out  and  found  me  leaving  cards 


THROWN   AWAY  I35 

on  the  Aless.  There  was  no  one  else  in  the  ante- 
room. 

He  said :  "  The  Boy  has  gone  out  shooting.  Does 
a  man  shoot  tdiir  with  a  revolver  and  a  writing- 
case  !  " 

I  said:  "Nonsense,  Major!"  for  I  saw  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

He  said:  "Nonsense  or  no  nonsense,  I'm  going 
to  the  Canal  now — at  once.     I  don't  feel  easy." 

Then  he  thought  for  a  minute,  and  said:  "  Can  you 
lie?" 

"  You  know  best,"  I  answered.  "  It's  my  profes- 
sion." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Major;  "'  you  must  come  out 
with  me  now — at  once — in  an  ckka  to  the  Canal  to 
shoot  black-buck.  Go  and  put  on  sJiirkar-'k\i — quick 
— and  drive  here  with  a  gun." 

The  Major  was  a  masterful  man;  and  I  knew  that 
he  would  not  give  orders  for  nothing.  So  I  obeyed, 
and  on  return  found  the  Major  packed  up  in  an  ckka 
— gun-cases  and  food  slung  below — all  ready  for  a 
shooting-trip. 

He  dismissed  the  driver  and  drove  himself.  We 
jogged  along  quietly  while  in  the  station;  but  as  soon 
as  we  got  to  the  dusty  road  across  the  plains,  he  made 
that  pony  fly.  A  country-bred  can  do  nearly  anything 
at  a  pinch.  We  covered  the  thirty  miles  in  under  three 
hours,  but  the  poor  brute  was  nearly  dead. 

Once  I  said: — "  What's  the  blazing  hurry.  Major?  " 

He  said,  quietly:  "The  Boy  has  been  alone,  by 
himself  for — one,  two,  five, — fourteen  hours  now!  I 
tell  you,  I  don't  feel  easy." 


136  PATHETIC 

This  uneasiness  spread  itself  to  me,  and  I  helped  to 
beat  the  pony. 

When  we  came  to  the  Canal  Engineer's  Rest  House 
the  Major  called  for  The  Boy's  servant;  but  there 
was  no  answer.  Then  we  went  up  to  the  house, 
calling  for  The  Boy  by  name;  but  there  was  no 
answer. 

*'  Oh,  he's  out  shooting,"  said  I. 

Just  then  I  saw  through  one  of  the  windows  a  little 
hurricane-lamp  burning.  This  was  at  four  in  the  after- 
noon. We  both  stopped  dead  in  the  veranda,  hold- 
ing our  breath  to  catch  every  sound;  and  we  heard, 
inside  the  room,  the  "  brr — brr — brr  "  of  a  multitude 
of  flies.  The  Major  said  nothing,  but  he  took  off  his 
helmet  and  we  entered  very  softly. 

The  Boy  was  dead  on  the  charpoy  in  the  centre  of 
the  bare,  lime-washed  room.  He  had  shot  his  head 
nearly  to  pieces  with  his  revolver.  The  gun-cases 
were  still  strapped,  so  was  the  bedding,  and  on  the 
table  lay  The  Boy's  writing-case  with  photographs. 
He  had  gone  away  to  die  like  a  poisoned  rat ! 

The  Major  said  to  himself  softly:  "Poor  Boy! 
Poor,  poor  devil !  "  Then  he  turned  away  from  the 
bed  and  said :   "  I  want  your  help  in  this  business." 

Knowing  The  Boy  was  dead  l)y  his  own  hand,  I 
saw  exactly  what  that  help  would  be,  so  I  passed  over 
to  the  table,  took  a  chair,  lit  a  cheroot,  and  began  to 
go  through  the  writing-case;  the  Major  looking  over 
my  shoulder  and  repeating  to  himself :  "  We  came 
too  late  ! — Like  a  rat  in  a  hole  ! — Poor,  poor  devil !  " 

The  Boy  must  have  spent  half  the  night  in  writ- 
ing to  his  people,  and  to  his  Colonel,  and  to  a  girl  at 


THROWN   AWAY  137 

Home;  and  as  soon  as  he  had  finished,  must  have 
shot  himself,  for  he  had  been  dead  a  long  time  when 
we  came  in. 

I  read  all  that  he  had  written,  and  passed  over  each 
sheet  to  the  Major  as  I  finished  it. 

We  saw  from  his  accounts  how  very  seriously  he 
had  taken  everything.  He  wrote  about  "  disgrace 
which  he  was  unable  to  bear  " — "  indelible  shame  " 
— "criminal  folly" — "wasted  life,"  and  so  on;  be- 
sides a  lot  of  private  things  to  his  Father  and  IMother 
much  too  sacred  to  put  into  print.  The  letter  to  the 
girl  at  Home  was  the  most  pitiful  of  all,  and  I  choked 
as  I  read  it.  The  Major  made  no  attempt  to  keep  dry- 
eyed.  I  respected  him  for  that.  He  read  and  rocked 
himself  to  and  fro,  and  simply  cried  like  a  woman  with- 
out caring  to  hide  it.  The  letters  were  so  dreary  and 
hopeless  and  touching.  We  forgot  all  about  The 
Boy's  follies,  and  only  thought  of  the  poor  Thing  on 
the  charpoy  and  the  scrawled  sheets  in  our  hands.  It 
was  utterly  impossible  to  let  the  letters  go  Home. 
They  would  have  broken  his  Father's  heart  and  killed 
his  Mother  after  killing  her  belief  in  her  son. 

At  last  the  Major  dried  his  eyes  openly,  and  said : 
"  Nice  sort  of  thing  to  spring  on  an  English  family ! 
What  shall  we  do?" 

I  said,  knowing  what  the  Major  had  brought  me 
out  for:  "The  Boy  died  of  cholera.  We  were  with 
him  at  the  time.  We  can't  commit  ourselves  to  half- 
measures.     Come  along." 

Then  began  one  of  the  most  grimly  comic  scenes 
I  have  ever  taken  part  in — the  concoction  of  a  big, 
written  lie,   bolstered  with  evidence,   to  soothe  The 


138  PATHETIC 

Boy's  people  at  home.  I  began  the  rough  draft  of  the 
letter,  the  Major  throwing'  in  hints  here  and  there 
while  he  gathered  up  all  the  stuff  that  The  Boy  had 
written  and  burnt  it  in  the  fireplace.  It  was  a  hot, 
still  evening  when  we  began,  and  the  lamp  burned 
very  badly.  In  due  course  I  got  the  draft  to  my  satis- 
faction, setting  forth  how  The  Boy  was  the  pattern  of 
all  virtues,  beloved  by  his  regiment,  with  every  prom- 
ise of  a  great  career  before  him,  and  so  on;  how  w^e 
had  helped  him  through  the  sickness — it  was  no  time 
for  little  lies  you  will  understand — and  how  he  had 
died  without  pain.  I  choked  while  I  was  putting  down 
these  things  and  thinking  of  the  poor  people  who 
would  read  them.  Then  I  laughed  at  the  grotesque- 
ness  of  the  affair,  and  the  laughter  mixed  itself  up 
with  the  choke — and  the  Major  said  that  we  both 
wanted  drinks. 

I  am  afraid  to  say  how  much  whiskey  we  drank  be- 
fore the  letter  was  finished.  It  had  not  the  least  effect 
on  us.  Then  we  took  off  The  Boy's  watch-locket,  and 
rings. 

Lastly,  the  Majoi  said :  "  We  must  send  a  lock  of 
hair  too.     A  woman  values  that." 

But  there  were  reasons  why  we  could  not  find  a  lock 
fit  to  send.  The  Boy  was  black-haired,  and  so  was 
the  Major,  luckily.  I  cut  off  a  piece  of  the  Major's 
hair  above  the  temple  with  a  knife,  and  put  it  into 
the  packet  we  were  making.  The  laughing-fit  and 
the  chokes  got  hold  of  me  again,  and  I  had  to  stop. 
The  Major  was  nearly  as  bad ;  and  we  both  knew  that 
the  worst  part  of  the  work  was  to  come. 

We  sealed  up  the  packet,  photographs,  locket,  seals, 


THROWN   AWAY  1 39 

ring,  letter,  and  lock  of  hair  with  The  Boy's  sealing- 
wax  and  The  Boy's  seal. 

Then  the  Major  said :  "  For  God's  sake  let's  get 
outside — away  from  the  room — and  think!  " 

We  went  outside,  and  walked  on  the  banks  of  the 
Canal  for  an  hour,  eating  and  drinking  what  we  had 
with  us,  until  the  moon  rose.  I  know  now  exactly 
how^  a  murderer  feels.  Finally,  we  forced  ourselves 
back  to  the  room  with  the  lamp  and  the  Other  Thing 
in  it,  and  began  to  take  up  the  next  piece  of  work. 
I  am  not  going  to  write  about  this.  It  w'as  too  hor- 
rible. We  burned  the  bedstead  and  dropped  the  ashes 
into  the  Canal;  we  took  up  the  matting  of  the  room 
and  treated  that  in  the  same  way.  I  went  off  to  a 
village  and  borrowed  two  big  hoes, — I  did  not  want 

the  villagers  to  help, — while  the  Major  arranged 

the  other  matters.  It  took  us  four  hours'  hard  work 
to  make  the  grave.  As  we  worked,  we  argued  out 
whether  it  was  right  to  say  as  much  as  w^e  remem- 
bered of  the  Burial  of  the  Dead.  We  compromised 
things  by  saying  the  Lord's  Prayer  w'itli  a  private  un- 
of^cial  prayer  for  the  peace  of  the  soul  of  The  Boy. 
Then  we  filled  in  the  grave  and  went  into  the  veranda 
— not  the  house — to  lie  down  to  sleep.  We  were 
dead-tired. 

When  we  woke  the  Major  said,  wearily :  "  We 
can't  go  back  till  to-morrow.  We  must  give  him  a 
decent  time  to  die  in.  He  died  early  iJiis  morning, 
remember.  That  seems  more  natural."  So  the  Major 
must  have  been  lying  awake  all  the  time,  thinking. 

I  said:  "  Then  w-hy  didn't  we  bring  the  body  back 
to  cantonments?  " 


I40  PATHETIC 

The  Major  thought  for  a  minute :  "  Because  the 
people  bolted  when  they  heard  of  the  cholera.  And 
the  ckka  has  gone !  " 

That  was  strictly  true.  We  had  forgotten  all  about 
the  ckka-pony,  and  he  had  gone  home. 

So,  we  were  left  there  alone,  all  that  stifling  day, 
in  the  Canal  Rest  House,  testing  and  re-testing  our 
story  of  The  Boy's  death  to  see  if  it  was  weak  in  any 
point.  A  native  turned  up  in  the  afternoon,  but  we 
said  that  a  Sahib  was  dead  of  cholera,  and  he  ran  away. 
As  the  dusk  gathered,  the  Major  told  me  all  his  fears 
about  The  Boy,  and  awful  stories  of  suicide  or  nearly- 
carried-out  suicide — tales  that  made  one's  hair  crisp. 
He  said  that  he  himself  had  once  gone  into  the  same 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  as  The  Boy,  when  he  was  young 
and  new  to  the  country;  so  he  understood  how  things 
fought  together  in  The  Boy's  poor  jumbled  head.  He 
also  said  that  youngsters,  in  their  repentant  moments, 
consider  their  sins  much  more  serious  and  inefifaceable 
than  they  really  are.  We  talked  together  all  through 
the  evening  and  rehearsed  the  story  of  the  death  of 
The  Boy.  As  soon  as  the  moon  was  up,  and  The  Boy, 
theoretically,  just  buried,  we  struck  across  country  for 
the  Station.  We  walked  from  eight  till  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning;  but  though  we  were  dead-tired,  we 
did  not  forget  to  go  to  The  Boy's  rooms  and  put  away 
his  revolver  with  the  proper  amount  of  cartridges  in 
the  pouch.  Also  to  set  his  writing-case  on  the  table. 
We  found  the  Colonel  and  reported  the  death,  feeling 
more  like  murderers  than  ever.  Then  we  went  to 
bed  and  slept  the  clock  round;  for  there  was  no  more 
in  us. 


THROWN    AWAY  I41 

The  tale  had  credence  as  long  as  was  necessary,  for 
every  one  forgot  about  The  Boy  l)efore  a  fortnight 
was  over.  Many  people,  however,  found  time  to  say 
that  the  Major  had  behaved  scandalously  in  not  bring- 
ing in  the  body  for  a  regimental  funeral.  The  sad- 
dest thing  of  all  was  the  letter  from  The  Boy's  mother 
to  the  Major  and  me — with  big  inky  blisters  all  over 
the  sheet.  She  wrote  the  sweetest  possible  things 
about  our  great  kindness,  and  the  ol)ligation  she  would 
be  under  to  us  as  long  as  she  lived. 

All  things  considered,  she  zvas  under  an  obligation; 
but  not  exactlv  as  she  meant. 


HUMOROUS 
WHEN  ANGRY,   COUNT  A  HUNDRED 

E.    CAVAZZI 

The  dining-room  of  a  house  on  Fifth  Avenue.  Per- 
sonages :  the  host,  hostess,  and  guests,  irreproachable 
in  manner,  unapproachable  in  costume,  politely  en- 
gaged in  conversation— all  but  Mr.  Alfred  Ames  and 
Miss  Eva  Rosewarne,  who,  seated  side  by  side,  regard 
in  silence  their  respective  bouquets,  which  lie  upon  the 
tablecloth. 

Alfred  (slightly  embarrassed). — Miss  Rosewarne,  I 
hope  you  will  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I'm  not  to 
blame  for  this.     Until  I  read  your  name  in  the  billet 
handed  me  as  I  came  into  the  house.  T  had  no  idea 
that  you  were  to  be  here.     .     .     .     Our  short-lived 
romance  was  quite  unknown  to  anybody  but  ourselves; 
Mrs.  Leclerc  supposed  that  she  was  doing  me  a  great 
favor — kind  hostess  that  she  is — in  giving  me  a  place 
next  to  you  at  her  table.     .     .     .     You  took  my  arm 
silently.      All   the   way   down-stairs  T   was  trying  to 
judge  whether  you  were  annoyed  or  indifferent  at  this 
unexpected  meeting;    but  you  gave  no  sign.     T  have 
not   forgotten   that,   a   fortnight   ago,  you   said   you 
would  never  speak  to  me  again;    and  heaven  defend 
me  from   expecting  the   impossible,   that   a   woman 

143 


144  HUMOROUS 

should  change  her  mind,  or  speak  when  she  had  re- 
solved not  to  do  so !  1  shall  not  ask  you  to  talk  to 
me — I  am  afraid  that  you  would  not  say  anything  kind 
if  you  should — but  I  beg  as  a  great  favor,  not  to  me, 
but  to  Mrs.  Leclerc,  who  has  done  nothing  to  offend 
you,  that  you  will  appear  to  be  on  the  ordinary  terms 
of  acquaintance  with  me. 

(Eva  regards  him  for  an  instant  in  silence,  takes  up 
her  bouquet,  examines  it,  and  lays  it  down  upon  the 
table  again.) 

Alfred. — I  wish  to  spare  you  as  much  as  possible. 
I  will  gladly  do  more  than  my  share  of  the  talking. 
In  those  other  days,  when  we  were  friends,  I  never 
had  much  practice  at  that,  but  I  dare  say  I  can  man- 
age it.  Ah  !  I  have  an  idea — not  a  very  brilliant  one, 
perhaps;  but  it  may  serve.  .  .  .  This  is  it:  I  once 
heard  of  a  man  who,  for  some  reason  or  other,  had 
nothing  to  say  one  evening  at  table.  So  he  turned 
to  his  neighbor  and  began  to  count  one,  two,  three, 
four,  with  expression.  Will  you  do  that — for  the  sake 
of  our  hostess?  It  commits  you  to  nothing.  It  surely 
isn't  talking  to  me.  What  information  can  I  get  from 
hearing  the  numerals  recited  in  the  tones  of  polite 
society?  .  .  .  Once  more,  let  me  ask  you  to  do  so 
for  the  sake  of  Mrs.  Leclerc. 

(Kva  assents  by  a  bend  of  her  golden  head.) 

Alfred. — Thank  you — if  I  may  presume  so  far.  I 
am  glad  that  T  never  vowed  not  to  speak  to  you;  it 
seems  to  me  that  there  are  so  manv  things  to  be  said. 
And  since  T  expect  to  sail  for  Europe  in  a  few  days, 
to  be.  gone  indefinitely,  perhaps,  like  any  other  con- 
demned man,  T  may  be  allowed  a  few  last  words. 


WHEN   ANGRY,   COUNT   A    HUNDRED  I45 

Eva. — One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven. 

Alfred. — You  know  that  I  loved  you  with  my  whole 
heart 

Eva  (with  haste). — Eight,  nine 

Alfred. — And  now',  at  this  moment,  trying  to  recall 
the  beginning  of  the  end,  I  cannot  find  any  reason 
why  you  and  I  should  be  farther  apart  than  if  the 
Atlantic  were  already  between  us.     .     .     . 

Eva  (pensively). — Ten,  eleven,  twelve. 

Alfred. — I  did  not  ask  you  to  explain  to  me  in  what 
way  I  displeased  you,  nor  to  divide  your  part  from 
mine  in  the  quarrel.  You  are  still  angry  with  me,  but 
I  shall  always  be  grateful  to  you.  For  a  few  days  I 
lived  in  Paradise;  and  it  isn't  every  man  who  can 
say  as  much.  It  gives  one,  afterward — there  is  a  great 
deal  of  afterward  in  life.  Miss  Rosewarne — an  ideal 
with  w'hich  to  compare  other  things,  and  find  them 
v.'anting.  And  if  one  absolutely  must  leave  Paradise, 
'tis  at  least  more  bearable  to  be  evicted  by  Eve — par- 
don me,  it  was  her  name,  you  know,  a  great  wdiile  be- 
fore it  was  yours — ^than  to  be  chased  out  of  it  by  the 
serpent.     There  was  no  serpent  in  my  Eden ! 

Eva  (with  a  little  cynicism). — Thirteen,  fourteen,  fif- 
teen, sixteen ! 

Alfred. — Ah,  you  are  right.  Of  course  he  was  there, 
glittering  with — orders  of  merit.  Also,  he  waltzed 
like  an  angel  of  light — you  told  me  so  that  evening  at 
the  Casino.  But  if  you  preferred  Count  von  W'ald- 
berg  to  my  humble  self,  you  might  at  least  have  said 
so  frankly.  I  would  not  have  stood  in  the  way  of 
your  happiness;  and  it  would  have  spared  me  some 
examinations  of  conscience. 


146  HUMOROUS 

Eva  (reproachfully). — Seventeen,  eighteen. 

Alfred. — You  were  so  good  as  to  say  that  you— 
liked  me,  and  I  believed  it.  Now,  you  have  taught 
me  to  disbelieve;  I  only  wish  that  I  could  doubt  the 
sincerity  with  which,  when  you  gave  back  my  ring, 
you  told  me  that  you  hated  me. 

Eva  (deprecatingly,  but  coldly). — Nineteen,  twenty. 

Alfred. — Mrs.  Leclerc  is  looking  at  us.  Say  some- 
thing kind  to  me — for  her  sake  ! 

Eva  (cheerfully). — Twenty-one,  twenty-two,  twen- 
ty-three, twenty-four,  twenty-five,  twenty-six,  twenty- 
seven,  twenty-eight ! 

Alfred. — A  thousand  thanks.  She  is  quite  satisfied 
that  we  are  enjoying  ourselves. 

Eva  (with  a  shade  of  coquetry). — Twenty-nine, 
thirty? 

Alfred. — Oh,  immensely — no — yet — that  is  to  say, 
not  precisely.  However,  I  mean  to  improve  my  op- 
portunity, such  as  it  is.  .  .  .  Are  you  not  glad 
that  we  are  to  have  Italian  opera  this  winter,  instead 
of  Wagner? 

Eva  (with  astonishment). — Thirty-one,  thirty-two, 
thirty-three ! 

Alfred. — Major  Starr  was  listening  to  us  just  then. 
Now  he  is  talking  again.  The  usual  thing,  I  believe, 
is  to  say  that  because  you  have  disappointed  me  I 
shall  lose  faith  in  all  women.  It  won't  have  that  effect 
with  me,  I  fancy,  though  I  should  have  liked  to  be- 
lieve in  you  too. 

Eva  (with  bitterness). — Thirty-four,  thirty-five, 
thirty-six. 

Alfred. — I  think  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  ever  for- 


WHEN  an(;ry,  count  a  hundred  147 

get  those  evenings  on  the  river:  it  will  be  a  dainty 
aquarelle  in  your  mind;  in  mine  the  scene  is  an  etch- 
ing, every  line  inalterable.  That  sort  of  thing  is  bitten 
in  with  aquafortis,  you  know.  .  .  .  On  the  whole, 
you  need  not  remember  that  occasion,  Miss  Rose- 
warn  e  ! 

Eva  (sadly). — Thirty-seven,  thirty-eight,  thirty-nine, 
fort}',  forty-one. 

Alfred. — And  in  the  morning,  as  I  waited  on  the  clifT 
for  you  to  appear,  I  understood  how  the  earth  waits 
for  the  dawn  to  illuminate  it,  to  give  it  new  life.  Well, 
I  have  had  my  day;  it  was  bright,  but  the  sunset  came 
too  soon. 

Eva  (dreamily). — Forty-two,  forty-three,  forty-four. 

Alfred. — The  sea  sang  of  you,  the  waves  sparkled 
for  you,  all  the  sirens  had  given  their  magic  to  you, 
and  their  harping  must  have  been  like  the  sound  of 
the  sea-wind  in  your  hair. 

Eva  (with  an  effort  at  mockery). — Forty-five,  forty- 
six  ! 

Alfred. — Your  criticism  is  deserved.  My  expres- 
sions do  sound  rather  too  lyric  and  high-flown.     .    .    . 

Eva  (sarcastically). — Forty-seven,  forty-eight,  forty- 
nine,  fifty.     ,     .     . 

Alfred. — If  you  really  think  them  so  comic,  let  me 
go  on.  I  dreamed  of  you — don't  you  like  the  present 
way  of  arranging  the  flowers  low,  so  that  one  hasn't 
to  peep  this  side  and  that  of  a  mountain  of  roses? 

Eva  (with  enthusiasm). — Fifty-one,  fifty-two,  fifty- 
three,  fifty-four,  fifty-five,  fifty-six ! 

Alfred. — Thank  you  again;  for  a  briefer  answer 
might  have  led  Major  Starr  to  suspect  that  my  con- 


I4S  HUMOROUS 

versation  failed  to  interest  you.  As  I  was  saying,  I 
dreamed  of  you  and  of  you  only.    I  still  dream 

Eva  (hurriedly). — Fifty-seven,  fifty-eight,  fifty-nine, 
sixty,  sixty-one,  sixty-two,  sixty-three,  sixty-four,  six- 
ty-five, sixty-six,  sixty-seven,  sixty-eight 

Alfred. — Don't  be  disturbed.  I  quite  understand 
that  dreams  are  illusions.  I  am  awake;  very  thor- 
oughly. 

Eva  (softly). — Sixty-nine,  seventy,  seventy-one,  sev- 
enty-two. 

Alfred. — It  is  better  to  wake  than  to  dream;  but 
if  one  has  no  more  pleasure  in  either — then  best  to 
sleep  soundly. 

Eva  (puzzled,  slightly  alarmed). — Seventy-three, 
seventy-four,  seventy-five?     .     .     . 

Alfred. — As  I  said,  I  expect  to  sail  in  a  few  days 
for  Europe;  in  any  case,  one  of  the  firm  would  have 
to  go  there. 

Eva  (with  resignation). — Seventy-six. 

Alfred. — I  have  tried  again  and  again  to  retrace 
those  parted  ways,  back  to  the  path  where,  for  a  little 
while,  we  walked  together.  A  dry  and  wearisome  road 
it  may  have  been  for  you.  For  me,  as  I  have  told  you, 
it  was  the  way  of  Paradise.  I  began  to  suspect  the 
presence  of  the  inconvenient  third  party  of  the  legend 
of  Eden  at  that  Casino  ball.  You  remember;  the 
evening  when  you  wore  a  gown  of  some  sort  of  cloth 
which  had  the  tint  of  a  blush-rose,  adorably  fitted, 
•  hanging  in  smooth,  heavy  folds,  trimmed  with — • 
trimmed  with — well,  I  suppose  it  was  tape 

Eva  (with  horror). — Seventy-seven  ! 

Alfred. — How  stupid  of  me !     Of  course  it  wasn't 


WHEN   ANGRY,   COUNT  A    HUNDRED  149 

tape.  I  used  to  be  posted  on  the  difference  between 
tape  and  bombazine  and  lace  and  things  in  those  other 
days  when  you  were  so  good  as  to  explain  it  to  me. 
At  all  events,  that  was  a  delicious  gown. 

Eva  (with  conviction). — Seventy-eight,  seventy- 
nine. 

Alfred. — You  told  me  to  come  early  to  the  Casino. 
.  .  .  Great  fun  I  was  to  have  that  evening !  You 
let  me  take  your  programme  of  dances;  the  trail  of 
the  serpent — pardon  me,  I  should  say  the  autograph 
of  Count  von  Waldberg — was  over  it  all. 

Eva  (deprecatingly). — Eighty,  eighty-one,  eighty- 
two. 

Alfred. — I  know  that.  It's  quite  true  that  I  had  a 
poor  little  lancers,  a  quadrille,  and  the  fag-end  of  a 
mazurka.  But  the  waltz — our  waltz,  the  "  Garden  of 
Sleep  " — you  danced  with  the  Count. 

Eva  (protesting). — -Eighty-three,  eighty-four,  eigh- 
ty-five. 

Alfred. — Of  course  he  asked  for  it.  But  you  have 
a  thousand  pretty  ways  of  saying  no.  You  could  have 
kept  that  waltz  for  me. 

Eva  (timidly). — Eighty-six,  eighty-seven. 

Alfred. — Well,  let  that  pass.  I  suggested,  as  con- 
siderately as  I  knew  how,  that  you  were  giving  rather 
too  many  dances  to  Count  von  Waldberg.  You  re- 
plied that  those  numbers  were  at  your  disposal  when 
he  took  your  card,  and  you  chose  to  give  them  to 
him. 

Eva  (poignantly). — Eighty-eight ! 

Alfred. — Reserved!  If  I  had  understood  that! 
Now  I  dare  not  even  hint  my  thanks  for  what — I  did 
not  have. 


150  HUMOROUS 

Eva  (with  recovered  coniposure). — Eighty-nine, 
ninety. 

Alfred. — Is  there  anything  more  cruel  than  the  sar- 
casm of  a  dance  when  one  is  unhappy?  .  .  .  And 
what  do  you  think  of  this  imported  notion  of  a  Theatre 
Libre? 

Eva  (startled).  —  Ninety-one,  ninety-two,  ninety- 
three  ! 

Alfred. — Pardon  the  abrupt  change  of  subject.  But 
Mrs.  Leclerc  had  a  very  curious  look  on  her  face. 

Eva  (acquiescent). — Ninety-four,  ninety-five. 

Alfred. — If  Count  von  Waldberg  pleased  you,  there 
was  certainly  no  reason  that  you  should  not  like  him. 
He's  a  very  good  fellow,  I  believe,  and  he  dances 
remarkably  well.  As  my  rival,  he  was  ex-ofificio  hate- 
ful— not  upon  personal  grounds.  Moreover,  he  has 
gone  back  to  his  own  country,  and  rather  suddenly.  I 
like  that  about  him;  it's  a  case  where  the  absent  is 
in  the  right.  Then,  too,  I'm  inclined  to  pity  Von 
Waldberg;  for  one  doesn't,  by  his  own  will,  lose  his 
chances  of  waltzing  with  Miss  Rosewarne.  You  must 
have  given  him  leave  of  absence.  I  begin  to  feel  for 
the  Count  as  a  brother  in  misfortune. 

Eva  (reprovingly). — Ninety-six,  ninety-seven. 

Alfred. — I  accept  the  reproof.  I  have  no  right  to 
guess  at  what  may  have  taken  place  between  yourself 
and  Count  von  Waldberg.  It  was  impertinent,  but 
decidedly  agreeable,  that  surmise  of  mine. 

Eva  (with  increased  coldness). — Ninety-eight. 

Alfred. — I'm  always  saying  the  wrong  thing.  .  .  . 
But  this  time  it  seems  to  me  I  must  speak — and  then 
forever  after  be  silent. 


WHEN  anc;kv,  count  a  hundred  151 

Eva  (mockingly). — Ninety-nine  ! 

Alfred. — That's  a  quotation  from — from — in  fact 
— something  that  I  was  interested,  a  while  ago,  to 
coach  myself  upon. 

Eva  (with  marked  indifference). — One  hundred. 

Alfred. — You  have  reached  the  hundred.  And  you 
are  still  angry,  I'm  afraid.  Ah!  if  by  chance  it  seems 
to  you  that  you  have  said  anything  which  you  would 
rather  have  left  unsaid,  or  said  differently — we  all  do 
that  sometimes,  you  know — you  could  retract  it  by 
counting  that  same  hundred  backward,  down  to  noth- 
ing again.     Isn't  that  a  pretty  good  scheme? 

Eva  (assenting). — Ninety-nine. 

Alfred. — I  think,  with  a  little  economy,  you  can 
make  that  double  back-action  hundred  last  until  Mrs. 
Leclerc  begins  to  "  collect  eyes  "  for  the  exit  of  the 
women.  You  can  be  epigrammatic,  staccato,  like  the 
French  novelists.  When  you  lisp  in  numbers,  they 
needn't  come  too  many  at  once.  I  know  your  intona- 
tions so  well  that  words  are  hardly  needed  to  convey 
— or  conceal — your  meaning. 

Eva. — Ninety-eight. 

Alfred. — Quite  so. 

Eva. — Ninety-seven. 

Alfred. — Perfectly. 

Eva. — Ninety-six. 

Alfred. — I'll  take  my  affidavit  to  that.  .  .  .  This 
is  capital.  Mrs.  Leclerc  is  sure  that  we  are  getting 
on  famously. 

Eva. — Ninety-five,  ninety-four 

Alfred. — Take  care;  don't  be  a  spendthrift  of  your 
numbers.    You  might — if  you  wouldn't  mind  doing  it 


152  HUMOROUS 

— smile  at  me  now  and  then,  instead  of  speaking. 
Only  to  save  the  numerals,  of  course.  .  .  .  Oh,  this 
is  a  comedy  that  we  are  playing !  But  for  me  it  is 
also  a  tragedy.  .  .  .  But  just  now  it  seems  to  me 
that  my  whole  spirit  is  in  revolution. 

Eva. — Ninety-three. 

Alfred. — Very  much  like  "  '93,"  as  Victor  Hugo 
has  described  it. 

Eva. — Ninety-two. 

Alfred. — I  had  built  so  many  castles  in  air,  and 
you  were  chatelaine  of  them  all.  Everything  had  a 
reason  for  existence.  .  .  .  But  my  life  has  ceased 
to  be  logical;  in  fact,  it  has  gone  all  to  pieces.  I  shall 
pick  up  the  pieces,  of  course — I'm  not  a  whimpering 
boy — and  glue  them,  screw  them,  clamp  them,  tie 
them  together,  anyhow,  provided  they  stick.  But  I 
don't  pretend  that  the  outfit  will  be  as  good  as  new, 
or  as  it  was  before  it  was  broken  up. 

Eva  (with  remorse). — Ninety-one,  ninety,  eighty- 
nine,  eighty-eight,  eighty-seven,  eighty-six. 

Alfred. — 'Twas  not  your  fault.  You  couldn't  help 
it.  I  did  not  deserve  you;  only  I  loved  you  with  all 
my  soul,  as — heaven  help  me !  I  love  you,  love  you 
now ! 

(Eva,  in  extreme  agitation,  very  pale,  rattles  oiT  the 
numbers  down  to  sixteen,  and  stops  there  for  want 
of  breath.) 

Alfred. — Poor  beautiful  child,  do  not  be  afraid.  I 
will  not  offend  in  this  way  again.  I  only  meant  to 
tell  you  that  amid  the  ruins  of  my  fallen  castle  there 
blossoms  an  imperishable  flower — my  affection  for 
you.     .     .     .     Now  everything  is  ended.     See,  Mrs. 


WHEN   ANGRY,    COUNT   A    HUNDRED  1 53 

Leclerc  is  looking  around  the  table  to  rally  her  femi- 
nine troop. 

(Eva,  counting  desperately,  and  ending  with  the 
number  three.) 

Alfred. — And  so,  it  is  good-by — definitively.  Be- 
cause when  we  meet  in  future,  if  ever,  it  will  be  as 
mere  acquaintances  who  have  nothing  to  say  to  each 
other  except  the  commonplaces  of  society.     We,  who 

were  to  have  been  united,  must  henceforward  be 

(he  stops  short,  surprised  by  an  enjotion  that  chokes 
his  voice  of  a  man  of  the  world). 

Eva  (boldly  skipping  a  number). — One !  (She 
recklessly  drops  her  bouquet  as  she  rises  with  the 
other  women.) 

Alfred  (stoops  to  pick  up  her  bouquet,  kisses  the 
hand  of  Eva  under  the  table,  and  says  in  a  rapturous 
undertone). — One  forever ! 


THE  CYCLOPEEDY 

EUGENE     FIELD 

Havin'  lived  next  door  to  the  Hobart  place  f  r  goin' 
on  thirty  years,  I  calc'late  that  I  know  jest  about  ez 
much  about  the  case  ez  anybody  else  now  on  airth, 
exceptin'  perhaps  it's  ol'  Jedge  Baker,  and  he's  so 
plaguey  old  'nd  so  powerful  feeble  that  Jie  don't  know 
nothin'. 

It  seems  that  in  the  spring  uv  '47 — the  year  that 
Cy  Watson's  oldest  boy  wuz  drownded  in  West  River 
— there  come  along  a  book  agent  sellin'  volyumes  'nd 
tracks  f'r  the  diffusion  uv  knowledge,  'nd  havin'  got 
the  recommend  of  the  minister  'nd  uv  the  selectmen, 
he  done  an  all-fired  big  business  in  our  part  uv  the 
county.  His  name  wuz  Lemuel  Higgins,  'nd  he  wuz 
ez  likely  a  talker  ez  I  ever  heerd,  barrin'  Lawyer  Con- 
key,  'nd  everybody  allowed  that  when  Conkey  wuz 
round  he  talked  so  fast  that  the  town  pump  ud  have 
to  be  greased  every  twenty  minutes. 

One  of  the  first  uv  our  folks  that  this  Lemuel  Hig- 
gins struck  wuz  Leander  Hobart.  Leander  had  jest 
marr'd  one  uv  the  Peasley  girls,  'nd  had  moved  into 
the  old  homestead  on  the  Plainville  road. — old  Dea- 
con Hobart  havin'  give  up  the  place  to  him.  the  other 
boys  havin'  moved  out  West  (like  a  lot  o'  darned  fools 

154 


THE   CYCLOPFEDY  155 

that  they  wuz !).  Leandcr  wiiz  feclin'  his  oats  jest 
about  this  time,  'nd  nnthin'  wuz  too  good  f'r  him. 

"  Hattie,"  sez  he,  "  I  guess  I'll  have  to  lay  in  a 
few  books  f'r  rcadin'  in  the  winter  time,  'nd  I've  half  a 
notion  to  subscribe  f'r  a  cyclopeedy.  Mr.  Higgins 
here  says  they're  invalerable  in  a  family,  and  that  we 
orter  have  'em,  bein'  as  how  we're  likely  to  have  the 
fam'ly  bime  by." 

"  Lor's  sakes,  Leander,  how  you  talk!  "  sez  Hattie, 
blushin'  all  over,  ez  brides  allers  does  to  heern  tell 
uv  sich  things. 

Waal,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  Leander  bar- 
gained with  Mr.  Higgins  for  a  set  uv  them  cyclo- 
peedies,  'nd  he  signed  his  name  to  a  long  printed  paper 
that  showed  how  he  agreed  to  take  a  cyclopeedy 
oncet  in  so  often,  wdiich  wuz  to  be  ez  often  ez  a  new 
one  uv  the  volyumes  wuz  printed.  A  cyclopeedy  isn't 
printed  all  at  oncet,  because  that  would  make  it  cost 
too  much;  consekently  the  man  that  gets  it  up  has 
it  strung  along  fur  apart,  so  as  to  hit  folks  oncet  every 
year  or  two,  and  gin'rally  about  harvest  time.  So 
Leander  kind  uv  liked  the  idee,  and  he  signed  the 
printed  paper  'nd  made  his  affidavit  to  it  afore  Jedge 
Warner. 

The  fust  volyume  of  the  cyclopeedy  stood  on  a 
shelf  in  the  old  seckertary  in  the  settin'-room  about 
four  months  before  they  had  any  use  f'r  it.  One  night 
'Squire  Turner's  son  come  over  to  visit  Leander  'nd 
Hattie,  and  they  got  to  talkin'  about  apples,  'nd  the 
sort  uv  apples  that  wuz  the  best.  Leander  allowed 
that  the  Rhode  Island  greenin'  wuz  the  best,  but  Hat- 
tie and  the  Turner  boy  stuck  up  f'r  the  Roxbury  rus- 


150  HUMOROUS 

set,  until  at  last  a  happy  idee  struck  Leander,  and  sez 
he :  "  We'll  leave  it  to  the  cyclopeedy,  b'gosh ! 
Whichever  one  the  cyclopeedy  sez  is  the  best  will  set- 
tle it." 

"  But  you  can't  find  out  nothin'  'bout  Roxbury  rus- 
sets nor  Rhode  Island  greenin's  in  our  cyclopeedy," 
sez  Hattie. 

"  Why  not,  I'd  like  to  know?  "  sez  Leander,  kind 
uv  indignant  like. 

"  'Cause  ours  hain't  got  down  to  the  R  yet,"  sez 
Hattie.  "  All  ours  tells  about  is  things  beginnin' 
with  A." 

"  Well,  ain't  we  talkin'  about  Apples?  "  sez  Lean- 
der. **  You  aggervate  me  terrible,  Hattie,  by  in- 
sistin'  on  knowin'  what  you  don't  know  nothin'  'bout." 

Leander  w^ent  to  the  seckertary  'nd  took  down  the 
cyclopeedy  'nd  hunted  all  through  it  f  r  Apples,  but 
all  he  could  find  wuz  "  Apple — See  Pomology." 

"  How  in  thunder  kin  I  see  Pomology,"  sez  Le- 
ander, "  when  there  aint  no  Pomology  to  see?  Gol 
durn  a  cyclopeedy,  anyhow !  " 

And  he  put  the  volyume  back  onto  the  shelf  'nd 
never  sot  eyes  into  it  agin. 

That's  the  way  the  thing  run  f'r  years  'nd  years. 
Leander  would've  gin  up  the  plaguey  bargain,  but  he 
couldn't;  he  had  signed  a  printed  paper  'nd  had  swore 
to  it  afore  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Higgins  would  have 
had  the  law  on  him  if  he  had  throwed  up  the  trade. 

The  most  aggervatin'  feature  uv  it  all  wuz  that  a 
new  one  uv  them  cussid  cyclopeedies  wuz  alius  sure 
to  show  up  at  the  wrong  time, — when  Leander  wuz 
hard  up  or  had  jest  been  afflicted  some  way  or  other. 


THE   CYCLOPEEDY  157 

His  barn  Ijiirnt  down  two  nights  afore  the  volyume 
containin'  the  letter  B  arrived,  and  Leander  needed 
all  his  chink  to  pay  f  r  lumber,  but  Higgins  sot  back 
on  that  affidavit  and  defied  the  life  out  uv  him. 

"  Never  mind,  Leander,"  sez  his  wife,  soothin'  like, 
"  it's  a  good  book  to  have  in  the  house,  anyhow,  now 
that  we've  got  a  baby." 

''  That's  so,"  sez  Leander,  "  babies  does  begin  with 
B,  don't  it?" 

You  see  their  fust  baby  had  been  born;  they  named 
him  Peasley,-=— Peasley  Hobart, — after  Hattie's  folks. 
So,  seein'  as  how  it  wuz  payin'  f'r  a  book  that  told 
about  babies,  Leander  didn't  begredge  that  five  dol- 
lars so  very  much  after  all. 

"  Leander,"  sez  Hattie  one  forenoon,  "  that  B  cyclo- 
peedy  ain't  no  account.  There  ain't  nothin'  in  it  about 
babies  except  '  See  Maternity  ' !  " 

"Waal,  Lll  be  gosh  durned !  "  sez  Leander.  That 
wuz  all  he  said,  and  he  couldn't  do  nothin'  at  all,  f'r 
that  book  agent,  Lemuel  Higgins,  had  the  dead  wood 
on  him, — the  mean,  sneakin'  critter! 

So  the  years  passed  on,  one  of  them  cyclopeedies 
showin'  up  now  'nd  then, — sometimes  every  two  years 
'nd  sometimes  every  four,  but  alius  at  a  time  when  Le- 
ander found  it  pesky  hard  to  give  up  a  fiver.  It  warn't 
no  use  cussin'  Higgins;  Higgins  just  laffed  when  Le- 
ander allowed  that  the  cyclodeepy  wuz  no  good  'nd 
that  he  wuz  bein'  rol)bed.  Meantime  Leander's  fam- 
ily wuz  increasin'  and  growin'.  Little  Sarey  had  the 
hoopin'  cough  dreadful  one  winter,  but  the  cyclopeedy 
didn't  help  out  at  all,  'cause  all  it  said  wuz:  "  Hoopin' 
Cough — See    Whoopin'    Cough  " — and    uv    course, 


158  HUMOROUS 

there  warn't  no  Whoopin'  Cough  to  see,  bein'  as  how 
the  W  hadn't  come  yet ! 

Oncet  when  Hiram  wanted  to  dreen  the  home  past- 
ure, he  went  to  the  cyclopeedy  to  find  out  about  it, 
but  all  he  diskivered  wuz:  "  Drain — See  Tile."  This 
wuz  in  1859,  and  the  cyclopeedy  had  only  got  down 
to  G. 

The  cow  wuz  sick  with  lung  fever  one  spell,  and 
Leander  laid  her  dyin'  to  that  cussid  cyclopeedy,  'cause 
when  he  went  to  readin'  'bout  cows  it  told  him  to 
"  See  Zoology." 

But  what's  the  use  uv  harrowin'  up  one's  feelin's 
talkin'  'nd  thinkin'  about  these  things?  Leander  got 
so  after  a  while  that  the  cyclopeedy  didn't  worry  him 
at  all :  he  grew  to  look  at  it  ez  one  uv  the  crosses 
that  human  critters  has  to  bear  without  complainin' 
through  this  vale  uv  tears.  The  only  thing  that  both- 
ered him  wuz  the  fear  that  mebbe  he  wouldn't  live  to 
see  the  last  volume, — to  tell  the  truth,  this  kind  uv 
got  to  be  his  hobby,  and  I've  heern  him  talk  'bout 
it  many  a  time  settin'  round  the  stove  at  the  tavern 
'nd  squirtin'  tobacco  juice  at  the  sawdust  box.  His 
wife,  Hattie,  passed  away  with  the  yaller  janders  the 
winter  W  come,  and  all  that  seemed  to  reconcile  Lean- 
der to  survivin'  her  wuz  the  prospect  uv  seein'  the 
last  volyume  uv  that  cyclopeedy.  Lemuel  Higgins, 
the  book  agent,  had  gone  to  his  everlastin'  punish- 
ment; but  his  son,  Hiram,  had  succeeded  to  his 
father's  business  'nd  continued  to  visit  the  folks  his 
old  man  had  roped  in.  By  this  time  Leander's  chil- 
dren had  growed  up;  all  on  'em  wuz  marr'd,  and  there 
wuz  numeris  grandchildren  to  amuse  the  ol'  gentle- 


THE   CYCLOPEEDY  I  59 

man.  But  Leander  wuzn't  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
common  things  uv  airth;  he  didn't  seem  to  take  no 
pleasure  in  his  grandchildren  like  most  men  do;  his 
mind  wuz  allers  sot  on  somethin'  else, — for  hours  'nd 
hours,  yes,  all  day  long,  he'd  set  out  on  the  front  stoop 
lookin'  wistfully  up  the  road  for  that  book  agent  to 
come  along  with  a  cyclopeedy.  He  didn't  want  to 
die  till  he'd  got  all  the  cyclopeedies  his  contract  called 
for;  he  wanted  to  have  everything  straightened  out 
before  he  passed  away. 

When — oh,  how  well  I  recollect  it — when  Y  come 
along  he  wuz  so  overcome  that  he  fell  over  in  a  fit 
uv  paralysis,  'nd  the  old  gentleman  never  got  over  it. 
For  the  next  three  years  he  drooped  'nd  pined,  and 
seemed  like  he  couldn't  hold  out  much  longer.  Finally 
he  had  to  take  to  his  bed, — he  was  so  old  'nd  feeble, 
■ — but  he  made  'em  move  the  bed  up  aginst  the  win- 
der so  he  could  watch  for  that  last  volyume  of  the 
cyclopeedy. 

The  end  come  one  balmy  day  in  the  spring  uv  '87. 
His  life  wuz  a-ebbin'  powerful  fast;  the  minister  wuz 
there,  'nd  me,  'nd  Dock  Wilson,  'nd  Jedge  Baker,  'nd 
most  uv  the  fam'ly.  Lovin'  hands  smoothed  the 
wrinkled  forehead  'nd  breshed  back  the  long,  scant, 
white  hair,  but  the  eyes  of  the  dyin'  man  wuz  sot  upon 
that  piece  uv  road  down  which  the  cyclopeedy  man 
alius  come. 

All  to  oncet  a  bright  'nd  joyful  look  come  into  them 
eyes,  'nd  ol'  Leander  riz  up  in  bed  'nd  sez,  "  It's 
come !  " 

"  What  is  it.  Father?  "  asked  his  daughter  Sarey, 
sobbin'  like. 


l6o  HUMOROUS 

"  Hush,"  sez  the  minister,  solemnly;  "  he  sees  the 
shinin'  gates  uv  the  Noo  Jerusalum." 

'*  No,  no,"  cried  the  aged  man;  "  it  is  the  cyclo- 
peedy — the  letter  Z — it's  comin" !  " 

And,  sure  enough !  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked 
Higgins.  He  tottered  rather  than  walked,  f'r  he  had 
growed  old  'nd  feeble  in  his  wicked  perfession. 

"  Here's  the  Z  cyclopeedy,  Mr.  Hobart,"  says  Hig- 
gins. 

Leander  clutched  it;  he  hugged  it  to  his  pantin' 
bosom;  then  stealin'  one  pale  hand  under  the  pillar 
he  drew  out  a  faded  bank-note  'nd  gave  it  to  Higgins. 

*'  I  thank  Thee  for  this  boon,"  sez  Leander,  rollin' 
his  eyes  up  devoutly ;  then  he  gave  a  deep  sigh, 

"  Hold  on,"  cried  Higgins,  excitedly,  "  you've 
made  a  mistake — it  isn't  the  last " 

But  Leander  didn't  hear  him — his  soul  hed  fled 
from  its  mortal  tenement  'nd  hed  soared  rejoicin'  to 
realms  uv  everlastin'  bliss. 

"  He  is  no  more,"  sez  Dock  Wilson,  metaphorically. 

"  Then  who  are  his  heirs?  "  asked  that  mean  critter 
Higgins. 

"  We  be,"  sez  the  family. 

"  Do  you  conjointly  and  severally  acknowledge  and 
assume  the  obligation  of  deceased  to  me?  "  he  asked 
'em. 

"What  obligation?"  asked  Peasley  Hobart,  stern 
like. 

"  Deceased  died  owin'  me  f'r  a  cyclopeedy !  "  sez 
Higgins. 

"  That's  a  lie !  "  sez  Peasley.  "  We  all  seen  him  pay 
you  for  the  Z  !  " 


THE   CYCLOPEEDY  l6l 

"  But  there's  another  one  to  come,"  sez  Higgins. 

"  Another?  "  they  all  asked. 

"  Yes,  the  index !  "  sez  he. 

So  there  wiiz,  and  I'll  be  eternally  goll  diirned  if  he 
aint  a-suin'  the  estate  in  the  probate  court  now  t'r  the 
price  uv  It 


THE  PARSON'S  CONVERSION 

W.     H.     H.     MURRAY 

"  Mirandy,  I'm  going  up  to  see  the  parson,"  ex 
claimed  the  deacon,  when  the  morning  devotions  were 
over,  "  and  see  if  I  can  thaw  him  out  a  Httle.  He's 
sort  of  frozen  all  up  latterly,  and  I  can  see  that  the 
young  folks  are  afraid  of  him  and  the  church,  too,  and 
that  won't  do — no,  that  won't  do,  for  the  minister 
ought  to  be  loved  by  young  and  old,  rich  and  poor, 
and  everybody;  and  a  church  without  young  folks 
in  it  is  like  a  family  with  no  children  in  it.  Yes,  I'll 
go  up  and  wish  him  a  happy  New  Year,  anyway.  Per- 
haps I  can  get  him  out  for  a  ride  to  see  the  young 
folks  at  their  fun.  It'll  do  him  good  and  them  good 
and  me  good,  and  do  everybody  good."  Saying  which 
the  deacon  got  inside  his  warm  far  coat  and  started 
toward  the  barn  to  harness  Jack  into  the  worn,  old- 
fashioned  sleigh. 


"  Happy  New  Year  to  you.  Parson  Whitney;  hap- 
py New  Year  to  you,"  cried  the  deacon,  from  his  sleigh 
to  the  parson,  who  stood  curled  up  and  shivering  in 
the  doorway  of  the  parsonage,  "  and  may  you  live  to 
enjoy  a  hundred." 

*■  Come  in;   come  in,"  cried  Parson  Whitney,  "  I'm 
763 


THE   PARSON'S    CONVERSION  I63 

glad  you've  come;   I'm  glad  you've  come.    I've  been 
thinking  of  you  all  the  morning." 

"  Thinking  of  me !  Well,  now,  I  never,"  exclaimed 
the  deacon.  "  Thinking  of  me,  and  among  all  these 
books,  too;  bibles,  catechisms,  tracts,  theologies,  ser- 
mons; well,  well,  that's  funny !  What  made  you  think 
of  me?  " 

"  Deacon  Tubman."  responded  the  parson,  as  he 
seated  himself  in  his  arm-chair,  "  I  want  to  talk  with 
you  about  the  church." 

"The  church!    nothing  going  wrong,  1  hope?" 
"  Yes,  things  ore  going  wrong,  deacon,"  responded 
the  parson;  "  the  congregation  is  growing  smaller  and 
smaller,  and  yet  I  preach  good,  strong,  biblical,  soul- 
satisfying  sermons,  I  think." 

"  Good  ones!  good  ones!  never  better;  never  bet- 
ter in  the  world." 

'*  And  yet  the  people  are  deserting  the  sanctuary," 
rejoined  the  parson,  solemnly,  "  and  the  young  people 
won't  come  to  the  sociables  and  the  little  children 
seem  actually  afraid  of  me.  What  shall  I  do,  deacon? 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"  You  have  hit  the  nail  on  the  head,  square's  a 
hatchet,  parson,"  responded  the  deacon.  "  The  con- 
gregation is  thinning;  the  young  people  don't  come 
to  the  meetings,  and  the  little  children  are  afraid  of 
you." 

"  Wliat's  the  matter,  deacon?  What  is  it?  speak  it 
right  out;  don't  try  to  spare  my  feelings.  I  will  do 
anything  to  win  back  my  people's  love."  and  the 
strong,  old-fashioned.  Calvinistic  preacher  said  it  in  a 
voice  that  actually  trembled. 


|64  HUMOROUS 

"  Yoli  can  do  it;  you  can  do  it  in  a  week!"  ex* 
claimed  the  deacon,  encouragingly.  "  Don't  worr^j 
about  it,  parson,  it'll  be  all  right;  it'll  be  all  right. 
Your  books  are  the  trouble." 

"Eh?  eh?  books?    What  have  they  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  Everything;  you  pore  over  them  day  in  and  day 
out;  they  keep  you  in  this  room  here,  when  you 
snould  be  cut  among  the  people.  Not  making  pas- 
toral visits,  I  don't  mean  that,  but  going  around 
among  them,  chatting  and  joking  and  having  a  good 
time.  They  would  like  it,  and  you  would  like  it,  and 
as  for  the  young  folks — how  old  are  you,  parson?  " 

"Sixty,  next  month;    sixty  next  month." 

"  Thirty !  thirty !  that's  all  you  are,  parson,  or  all 
you  ought  to  be,"  cried  the  deacon.  "  Thirty,  twenty, 
sixteen.  Let  the  figures  slide  down  and  up,  accord- 
ing to  circumstances,  but  never  let  them  go  higher 
than  thirty,  when  you  are  dealing  with  young  folks, 
I'm  sixty  myself,  counting  years,  but  I'm  only  six- 
teen: sixteen  this  morning,  that's  all,  parson,"  and 
he  rubbed  his  little,  round,  plump  hands  together 
looked  at  the  parson  and  winked. 

"  Bless  my  soul.  Deacon  Tubman,  I  don't  know  but 
that  you  are  right!  Sixty?  I  don't  know  as  I  am 
sixty."  And  he  began  to  rub  his  own  hands,  and 
came  within  an  ace  of  executing  a  wink  at  the  deacon 
himself. 

"  Not  a  day  over  twenty,  if  T  am  any  Judge  of  age," 
responded  the  deacon,  deliberately,  as  he  looked  the 
white-headed  old  minister  over  with  a  most  comic 
imitation  of  seriousness.  "  Not  a  day  over  twenty, 
on  mv  honor."  and  the  deacon  leaned  forward  toward 


THE   parson's   conversion  165 

the  parson  and  gave  him  a  punch  with  his  thumb, 
and  then  he  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  so  heart- 
ily that  the  parson  caught  the  infectious  mirth  and 
roared  away  as  heartily  as  the  deacon. 

"  But  what  can  I  do,"  queried  the  good  man,  sober- 
ing dow  n.     "  I  make  my  pastoral  visits  " 

"  Pastoral  visits !  "  responded  Deacon  Tubman, 
"  oh,  yes,  and  they  are  all  well  enough  for  the  old 
folks,  but  they  ar'n't  the  kind  of  biscuit  the  young 
folks  like — too  heavy  in  the  centre,  and  too  hard  in 
the  crust,  for  young  teeth,  eh,  parson?  " 

"  But  what  shall  I  do?  what  shall  I  do?  "  reiterated 
the  parson,  somewhat  despondently. 

"  Oh,  put  on  your  hat  and  gloves  and  warmest  coat 
and  come  along-  with  me.  Come,  come;  let  the  old 
books  and  catechisms  and  sermons  and  tracts  have  a 
respite  for  once,  and  we'll  spend  the  day  out  of  doors 
with  the  boys  and  girls  and  the  people." 

"  I'll  do  it !  "  exclaimed  the  parson.  "  Deacon  Tub- 
man, vou  are  right.  Think  how  much  He  loved  the 
children  and  how  the  little  ones  loved  Him!  And 
why  shouldn't  they  love  me.  too?  Why  shouldn't 
they?  I'll  make  them  do  it."  And  with  these  brave 
words,  Parson  Whitney  bundled  himself  up  in  his 
warmest  garment  and  followed  the  deacon  down-stairs. 

"  Tell  the  folks  that  you  won't  be  back  till  night," 
called  the  deacon  from  the  sleigh,  "  for  this  is  New 
Year's  and  we're  going  to  make  a  day  of  it."  And 
he  laughed  so  heartily  that  the  parson  joined  in  the 
laughter  himself  as  he  came  shuffling  down  the  icy 
path  toward  him. 

"  Bless  me,  how  much  younger  I  feel  already,"  said 


l66  HUMOROUS 

the  good  man,  as  he  stood  up  in  the  sleigh,  and  with 
a  long,  strong  breath,  breathed  the  cool,  pure  air  into 
his  lungs.  "  Bless  me,  how  much  younger  I  feel  al- 
ready," he  repeated,  as  he  settled  down  into  the  roomy 
seat  of  the  old  sleigh.  "  Only  sixteen  to-day,  eh,  dea- 
con," and  he  nudged  him  with  his  elbow. 

"  That's  all;  that's  all,  parson,"  answered  the  dea- 
con, gayly,  as  he  nudged  him  vigorously  back,  "  that's 
all  we  are,  either  of  us,"  and,  laughing  as  merrily  as 
boys,  the  two  glided  away  in  the  sleigh. 

Well,  perhaps  they  didn't  have  fun  that  day — those 
two  old  boys  that  had  started  out  with  the  feeling 
that  they  were  "  only  sixteen,"  and  bound  to  make 
"  a  day  of  it."  And  they  did  make  a  day  of  it,  in  fact, 
and  such  a  day  as  neither  had  had  for  forty  years. 
For,  first,  they  went  to  Bartlett's  hill,  where  the  boys 
and  girls  were  coasting,  and  coasted  with  them  for  a 
full  hour;  and  then  it  was  discovered  by  the  younger 
portion  of  his  flock  that  the  parson  was  not  an  old, 
stiff,  solemn,  surly  poke,  as  they  had  thought,  but  a 
pleasant,  good-natured,  kindly  soul,  who  could  take 
and  give  a  joke  and  steer  a  sled  as  well  as  the  smart- 
est boy  in  the  crowd.  How  bright  and  sweet  the  boys 
and  girls  looked,  with  their  rosy  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes,  and  how  the  old  parson's  heart  thrilled  as  they 
crowded  around  him  when  he  would  go.  and  urged 
him  to  stay;  and  how  little  Alice  Dorchester  begged 
him,  with  her  little  arms  around  his  neck,  to  "  jes 
stay  and  gib  me  one  more  slide.". 

"  You  never  made  such  a  pastoral  call  as  that,  par- 
son," said  the  deacon,  as  they  drove  away  amid  the 
cheers  of  the  boys  and  the  good-byes  of  the  girls. 


THE   parson's   conversion  1 67 

"  God  bless  them !  God  bless  them !  "  said  the  par- 
son. "  They  ha\-e  lifted  a  great  load  from  my  heart 
and  taught  me  the  sweetness  of  life,  of  youth  and  the 
wisdom  of  Him  who  took  the  little  ones  in  His  arms 
and  blessed  them.  Ah,  deacon,"  he  added,  "  I've  been 
a  great  fool,  but  I'll  be  so,  thank  God,  no  more." 

And  with  Old  Jack  in  the  van  they  proceeded  on 
their  way  to  the  village. 


Now,  Old  Jack  was  a  horse  of  a  great  deal  of  char- 
acter, and  it  was  hinted  that  he  had  once  been  a  great 
racer  with  a  2.40  record. 

He  was,  in  sooth,  an  animal  of  most  unique  and 
extraordinary  appearance.  He  was  quite  seventeen 
hands  in  height  and  long  in  proportion.  His  head 
was  long  and  bony  and  his  hip  bones  sharp  and  pro- 
tuberant; his  tail  was  what  is  known  among  horse- 
men as  a  "  rat  tail,"  being  but  scantily  covered  with 
hair,  and  his  neck  was  even  more  scantily  supplied 
with  a  mane.  But  his  legs  were  flat  and  corded  like 
a  racer's,  his  neck  long  and  thin  as  a  thoroughbred's, 
his  nostrils  large,  his  ears  sharply  pointed  and  lively, 
while  the  white  rings  around  his  eyes  hinted  at  a 
cross,  somewhere  in  his  pedigree,  with  Arabian  blood. 

Such  was  the  horse,  then,  that  the  deacon  had  ahead 
of  him  and  the  old-fashioned  sleigh  when,  with  the 
parson  alongside,  he  struck  into  the  principal  street 
of  the  village. 

It  happened  that  everybody  in  towai,  and  many  who 
lived  out  of  it,  were  on  that  particular  street,  and  just 
at  the  hour,  too,  when  the  deacon  came  to  the  foot 


l68  HUMOROU? 

of  it,  SO  that  the  walk  on  either  side  was  Hned  darkly 
with  lookers  on  and  the  smooth  snow  path  between  the 
two  lines  looked  like  a  veritable  home-stretch  on  a 
race  day.  So  the  old-fashioned  sleigh  was  quickly 
surrounded  by  the  light,  fancy  cutters  of  the  rival 
racers  and  Old  Jack  was  shambling  along  in  the  midst 
of  the  high-spirited  and  smoking  nags. 

"  Hillow,  deacon,"  shouted  one  of  the  boys,  who 
was  driving  a  trim-looking  bay,  and  who  had  crossed 
the  line  at  the  end  of  the  course  second  only  to  the 
pacer  that  could  "  speed  like  lightning,"  as  the  boys 
said;  "  Hillow,  deacon,  ain't  you  going  to  shake  out 
old  shamble-heels  and  show  us  fellows  what  speed  is, 
to-day?  " 

"  I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,"  answered  the  dea- 
con, good-naturedly;  "  I  don't  know  but  what  I  will, 
if  the  parson  don't  object,  and  you  won't  start  off 
too  quick  to  begin  with;  for  this  is  New  Year's  and 
a  little  extra  fun  won't  hurt  any  of  us,  I  reckon." 

"  Do  it !  do  it !  we'll  hold  up  for  you,"  answered 
a  dozen  merry  voices.  "  Do  it,  deacon,  it'll  do  old 
shamble-heels  good  to  go  a  ten-mile-an-hour  gait  for 
once  in  his  life,  and  the  parson  needn't  fear  of  being 
scandalized  by  any  speed  you'll  get  out  of  him,  either," 
and  the  merry-hearted  chaps  haw-hawed  as  men  and 
boys  will  when  everyone  is  jolly  and  fun  flows  fast. 

But  the  horse  was  a  knowing  old  fellow  and  had 
the  right  stufif  in  him  and  hadn't  forgotten  his  early 
training,  either,  for  when  he  came  to  the  "  turn,"  his 
head  and  tail  came  up,  his  eyes  brightened,  and,  with 
a  playful  movement  of  his  huge  body,  without  the 
least  hint  from  the  deacon,  he  swung  himself  and  the 


THE    I'ARSON  S   CONVERSION  ID9 

cumbrous  old  sleigh  into  line  and  began  to  straighten 
himself  for  the  coming  brush. 

Now,  Jack  needed  "  steadying  "  at  the  start,  but 
the  good  deacon  had  no  experience  with  the  "  rib- 
bons," and  was,  therefore,  utterly  unskilled  in  the  mat- 
ter of  driving.  And  so  it  came  about  that  Old  Jack 
was  so  confused  at  the  start  that  he  made  a  most 
awkward  and  wretched  appearance  in  his  effort  to  get 
ofT,  being  all  "  mixed  up,"  as  the  saying  is,  so  much 
so  that  the  crowd  roared-  at  his  ungainly  efforts  and 
his  flying  rivals  were  twenty  rods  away  before  he  had 
even  got  started.  But  at  last  he  got  his  huge  body  in 
a  straight  line  and,  leaving  his  miserable  shuffle, 
squared  away  to  his  work,  and  with  head  and  tail  up 
went  off  at  so  slashing  a  gait  that  it  fairly  took  the 
deacon's  breath  away  and  caused  the  crowd  that  had 
been  hooting  him  to  roar  their  applause,  while  the 
parson  grabbed  the  edge  of  the  old  sleigh  with  one 
hand  and  the  rim  of  his  tall  black  hat  with  the  other. 

Now  it  was  not  my  fault,  nor  the  deacon's,  nor  the 
parson's,  either,  please  remember,  then,  that  awkward, 
shufifling,  homely-looking  Old  Jack  was  thus  suddenly 
transformed  from  wliat  he  ordinarily  was  into  a  mag- 
nificent spectacle  of  energetic  velocity.  Indeed,  the 
spectacle  that  the  huge  horse  presented  was  so  mag- 
nificent and  his  action  so  free,  spirited,  and  playful,  as 
he  came  sweeping  onward  that  the  cheers,  such  as 
"  Good  heavens !  see  the  deacon's  old  horse ! " 
"  Look  at  him  !  look  at  him  !  "  "  What  a  stride !  " 
were  heard  on  all  sides. 

But  by  this  time  the  deacon  had  become  somewhat 
alarmed,  for  Old  Jack  was  going  nigh  to  a  thirty  clip 


170  HUMOROUS 

— a  frightful  pace  for  an  inexperienced  driver  to  ride 
— and  began  to  put  a  good  strong  pressure  upon  the 
bit,  not  doubting  that  Old  Jack,  ordinarily  the  easiest 
horse  in  the  world  to  manage,  would  take  the  hint 
and  immediately  slow  up.  But  though  the  huge 
horse  took  the  hint,  it  was  in  exactly  the  opposite 
manner  that  the  deacon  intended  he  should,  for  he 
interpreted  the  little  man's  steady  pull  as  an  intima- 
tion that  his  driver  was  getting  over  his  flurry  and 
beginning  to  treat  him  as  a  horse  ought  to  be  treated 
in  a  race,  and  that  he  could  now,  having  got  settled 
to  his  work,  go  ahead.  And  go  ahead  he  did.  The 
more  the  deacon  pulled  the  more  the  great  animal  felt 
himself  steadied  and  assisted.  And  so,  the  harder  the 
good  man  tugged  at  the  reins,  the  more  powerfully 
the  machinery  of  the  big  animal  ahead  of  him  worked, 
until  the  deacon  got  alarmed  and  began  to  call  upon 
the  horse  to  stop,  crying,  "  Whoa,  Jack,  whoa,  old 
boy,  I  say!  whoa,  will  you,  now?  that's  a  good  fel- 
low !  "  and  many  other  coaxing  calls,  while  he  pulled 
away  steadily  at  the  reins.  But  the  horse  misunder- 
stood the  deacon's  calls  as  he  had  his  pressure  upon 
the  reins.  And  so,  with  the  memory  of  a  hundred 
races  stirring  his  blood,  the  crowds  cheering  him  to 
the  echo,  the  steadying  pull,  the  encouraging  cries  of 
his  driver  in  his  ears  and  his  only  rival,  the  pacer, 
whirling  along  only  a  few  rods  ahead  of  him,  the 
monstrous  animal,  with  a  desperate  plunge  that  half 
lifted  the  old  sleigh  from  the  snow,  let  out  another 
link,  and,  with  such  a  burst  of  speed  as  was  never 
seen  ii{  the  village  before,  tore  along  after  the  pacer  at 
such  a  terrific  pace  that,  within  the  distance  of  a  dozen 


THE   parson's   conversion  I7I 

lengths,  he  lay  lapped  upon  him  and  the  two  were 
going  it  nose  and  nose. 

No  sooner  was  Old  Jack  fairly  lapped  on  the  pacer, 
whose  driver  was  urging  him  along  with  rein  and  voice 
alike,  and  the  contest  seemed  doubtful,  than  the  spirit 
of  old  Adam  himself  entered  into  the  deacon  and  the 
parson  both,  so  that,  carried  away  by  the  excitement 
of  the  race,  they  fairly  forgot  themselves  and  entered 
as  wildly  into  the  contest  as  two  ungodly  jockeys. 

"  Deacon  Tubman,"  said  the  parson,  as  he  clutched 
more  stoutly  the  rim  of  his  tall  hat,  against  which,  as 
the  horse  tore  along,  the  snow  chips  were  pelting  in 
showers,  "  Deacon  Tubman,  do  you  think  the  pacer 
will  beat  us?  " 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it !  not  if  I  can  help  it !  "  yelled 
the  deacon,  in  reply.  "  Go  it,  old  boy !  "  he  shouted, 
encouragingly,  "  go  along  with  you,  I  say !  "  And 
the  parson,  also,  carried  away  by  the  whirl  of  the  mo- 
ment, cried,  "  Go  along,  old  boy !  Go  along  with  you, 
I  say !  " 

This  was  the  very  thing,  and  the  only  thing,  that 
the  huge  horse,  whose  blood  was  now  fairly  aflame, 
wanted  to  rally  him  for  the  final  effort;  and,  in  re- 
sponse to  the  encouraging  cries  of  the  two  behind 
him,  he  gathered  himself  together  for  another  burst  of 
speed  and  put  forth  his  collected  strength  with  such 
tremendous  energy  and  suddenness  of  movement  that 
the  little  deacon,  who  had  risen  and  was  standing  erect 
in  the  sleigh,  fell  back  into  the  arms  bf  the  parson, 
while  the  great  horse  rushed  over  the  line  amid  such 
cheers  and  roars  of  laughter  as  were  never  heard  in  that 
village  before. 


172  HUMOROUS 

So  everybody  shook  hands  with  the  parson  and 
wished  him  a  happy  New  Year,  and  the  parson  shook 
hands  with  everybody  and  wished  them  all  many  happy 
returns;  and  everybody  praised  Old  Jack  and  rallied 
the  deacon  on  his  driving,  and  then  everybody  went 
home  good-natured  and  happy,  laughing  and  talking 
about  the  wonderful  race  and  the  change  that  had 
come  over  Parson  \Miitney.  And  the  following  Sun- 
day morning,  when  the  parson  held  forth,  so,  I  am 
told,  the  church  couldn't  hold  them  all. 


ON   BABIES 

JEROME     K.     JEROME 

Oh,  yes,  I  do — I  know  a  lot  about  'em.  I  was  one 
myself  once — though  not  long,  not  so  long  as  my 
clothes.  They  were  very  long,  I  recollect,  and  always 
in  my  way  when  I  wanted  to  kick.  Why  do  babies 
have  such  yards  of  unnecessary  clothing?  It  is  not 
a  riddle.  I  really  want  to  know.  I  never  could  un- 
derstand it.  Is  it  that  the  parents  are  ashamed  of 
the  size  of  the  child,  and  wish  to  make  believe  that  it 
is  longer  than  it  actually  is?  I  asked  a  nurse  once 
why  it  was.     She  said : 

"  Lor',  sir,  they  always  have  long  clothes,  bless  their 
little  hearts." 

And  when  I  explained  that  her  answer,  although 
doing  credit  to  her  feelings,  hardly  disposed  of  my 
difificulty,  she  replied : 

"  Lor',  sir,  you  wouldn't  have  'em  in  short  clothes, 
poor  little  dears?  "  And  she  said  it  in  a  tone  that 
seemed  to  imply  I  had  suggested  some  unmanly  out- 
rage. 

Since  then,  I  have  felt  shy  at  making  inquiries  on 
the  subject,  and  the  reason — if  reason  there  be — is 
still  a  mystery  to  me.  But,  indeed,  putting  them  in 
any  clothes  at  all  seems  absurd  to  my  mind.  Good- 
ness knows,  there  is  enough  of  dressing  and  undress- 

i?3 


174  HUMOROUS 

ing  to  be  gone  through  in  life,  without  beginning  it 
before  we  need;  and  one  would  think  that  people 
who  live  in  bed  might,  at  all  events,  be  spared  the 
torture.  Why  wake  the  poor  little  wretches  up  in 
the  morning  to  take  one  lot  of  clothes  off,  fix  another 
lot  on,  and  put  them  to  bed  again;  and  then,  at  night, 
haul  them  out  once  more,  merely  to  change  every- 
thing back?  And  when  all  is  done,  what  difference 
is  there,  I  should  like  to  know,  between  a  baby's  night- 
gown and  the  thing  it  wears  in  the  day-time? 

Very  likely,  however,  I  am  only  making  myself 
ridiculous — I  often  do;  so  I  am  informed — and  I  will, 
therefore,  say  no  more  upon  this  matter  of  clothes, 
except  only  that  it  would  be  of  great  convenience  if 
some  fashion  were  adopted,  enabling  you  to  tell  a  boy 
from  a  girl. 

At  present  it  is  most  awkward.  Neither  hair,  dress, 
nor  conversation  affords  the  slightest  clue,  and  you 
are  left  to  guess.  By  some  mysterious  law  of  Nature 
you  invariably  guess  wrong,  and  are  thereupon  re- 
garded by  all  the  relatives  and  friends  as  a  mixture  of 
fool  and  knave,  the  enormity  of  alluding  to  a  male 
babe  as  "  she  "  being  only  equalled  by  the  atrocity  of 
referring  to  a  female  infant  as  "  he."  Whichever  sex 
the  particular  child  in  question  happens  iiat  to  belong 
to  IS  considered  as  beneath  contempt,  and  any  men- 
tion of  it  is  taken  as  a  personal  insult  to  the  family. 

And,  as  you  value  your  fair  name,  do  not  attempt 
to  get  out  of  the  difficulty  by  talking  of  "  it."  There 
are  various  methods  by  which  you  may  achieve  ig- 
nominy and  shame.  By  murdering  a  large  and  re- 
spected   family    in   cold   blood,   you   will   gain    much 


ON   BABIES  175 

unpopularity  in  the  neighborhood  of  your  crime,  and 
even  robbing  a  church  will  get  you  cordially  disliked, 
especially  by  the  vicar.  But  if  you  desire  to  drain  to 
the  dregs  the  fullest  cup  of  scorn  and  hatred  that  a 
fellow  human  creature  can  pour  out  for  you,  let  a 
young  mother  hear  you  call  dear  baby  "  it." 

Your  best  plan  is  to  address  the  article  as  "  little 
angel."  The  noun  angel  being  of  common  gender, 
suits  the  case  admirably,  and  the  epithet  is  sure  of  be- 
ing favorably  received.  "  Pet  "  or  "  beauty  "  are  use- 
ful for  variety's  sake,  but  "  angel  "  is  the  term  that 
brings  you  the  greatest  credit  for  sense  and  good  feel- 
ing. The  word  should  be  preceded  by  a  short  giggle, 
and  accompanied  by  as  much  smile  as  possible.  And, 
whatever  you  do,  don't  forget  to  say  that  the  child 
has  got  its  father's  nose.  This  "  fetches  "  the  parents 
(if  I  may  be  allowed  a  vulgarism)  more  than  anything. 
They  will  pretend  to  laugh  at  the  idea  at  first,  and 
will  say,  "  Oh,  nonsense !  "  You  must  then  get  ex- 
cited, and  insist  that  it  is  a  fact.  You  need  have  no 
conscientious  scruples  on  the  subject,  because  the 
thing's  nose  really  does  resemble  its  father's — at  all 
events  quite  as  much  as  it  does  anything  else  in  nature 
■ — being,  as  it  is,  a  mere  smudge. 

Do  not  despise  these  hints,  my  friends.  There  may 
come  a  time  when,  with  mamma  on  one  side  and 
grandmamma  on  the  other,  a  group  of  admiring 
young  ladies  (not  admiring  you,  though)  behind,  and 
a  bald-headed  dab  of  humanity  in  front,  you  will  be  ex- 
tremely thankful  for  some  idea  of  what  to  say.  A 
man — an  unmarried  man,  that  is — is  never  seen  to 
such  disadvantag^e  as  when  underooine  the  ordeal  of 


[76  HUMOROUS 

*'  seeing  baby."  A  cold  shudder  runs  down  his  back 
at  the  bare  proposal,  and  the  sickly  smile  with  which 
he  says  how  delighted  he  shall  be,  ought  surely  to 
move  even  a  mother's  heart,  unless,  as  I  am  inclined 
to  believe,  the  whole  proceeding  is  a  mere  device, 
adopted  by  wives  to  discourage  the  visits  of  bachelor 
friends. 

It  is  a  cruel  trick,  though,  whatever  its  excuse  may 
be.  The  bell  is  rung,  and  somebody  sent  to  tell  nurse 
to  bring  baby  down.  This  is  the  signal  for  all  the 
females  present  to  commence  talking  "  baby,"  during 
which  time  you  are  left  to  your  own  sad  thoughts, 
and  to  speculations  upon  the  practicability  of  suddenly 
recollecting  an  important  engagement,  and  the  likeli- 
hood of  your  being  believed  if  you  do.  Just  when 
you  have  concocted  an  absurdly  implausible  tale  about 
a  man  outside,  the  door  opens,  and  a  tall,  severe-look- 
ing woman  enters,  carrying  what  at  first  sight  appears 
to  be  a  particularly  skinny  bolster,  with  the  feathers 
all  at  one  end.  Instinct,  however,  tells  you  that  this 
is  the  baby,  and  you  rise  with  a  miserable  attempt  at 
appearing  eager.  When  the  first  gush  of  feminine 
enthusiasm  with  which  the  object  in  question  is  re- 
ceived has  died  out,  and  the  number  of  ladies  talking 
at  once  has  been  reduced  to  the  ordinary  four  or  five, 
the  circle  of  fluttering  petticoats  divides,  and  room  is 
made  for  you  to  step  forward.  This  you  do  with 
much  the  same  air  that  you  would  walk  into  the 
prisoner's  dock,  and  then,  feeling  unutterably  miser- 
able, you  stand  solemnly  staring  at  the  child.  There 
is  dead  silence,  and  you  know  that  every  one  is  wait- 
ing for  you  to  speak.    You  try  to  think  of  something 


ON    BABIES  177 

to  say,  but  find,  to  your  horror,  that  your  reasoning 
faculties  have  left  you.  It  is  a  moment  of  despair,  and 
your  evil  genius,  seizing  the  opportunity,  suggests  to 
you  some  of  the  most  idiotic  remarks  that  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  human  being  to  perpetrate.  Glancing 
round  with  an  imbecile  smile,  you  sniggeringly  ob- 
serve that  "It  hasn't  got  much  hair,  has  it?"  No- 
body answers  you  for  a  minute,  but  at  last  the  stately 
nurse  says,  with  much  gravity :  ''  It  is  not  customary 
for  children  five  weeks  old  to  have  long  hair."  An- 
other silence  follows  this,  and  you  feel  you  are  being 
given  a  second  chance,  which  you  avail  yourself  of 
by  inquiring  if  it  can  walk  yet,  or  what  they  feed 
it  on. 

By  this  time,  you  have  got  to  be  regarded  as  not 
quite  right  in  your  head,  and  pity  is  the  only  thing 
felt  for  you.  The  nurse,  however,  is  determined  that, 
insane  or  not,  there  shall  be  no  shirking,  and  that  you 
shall  go  through  your  task  to  the  end.  In  the  tones 
of  a  high  priestess,  directing  some  religious  mystery, 
she  says,  holding  the  bundle  toward  you :  "  Take  her 
in  your  arms,  sir."  You  are  too  crushed  to  offer  any 
resistance,  and  so  meekly  accept  the  burden.  "  Put 
your  arm  more  down  her  middle,  sir,"  says  the  high 
priestess,  and  then  all  step  back  and  watch  you  in- 
tently as  though  you  were  going  to  do  a  trick  with  it. 

W^iat  to  do  you  know  no  more  than  you  did  what 
to  say.  It  is  certain  something  must  be  done,  how- 
ever, and  the  only  thing  that  occurs  to  you  is  to 
heave  the  unhappy  infant  up  and  down  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  "  oopsee-daisy."  or  some  remark  of  equal 
intelHgence.     "  I  wouldn't  jig  her,  sir,  if  I  were  you," 


178  HUMOROUS 

says  the  nurse;  "  a  very  little  upsets  her."  You 
promptly  decide  not  to  jig  her,  and  sincerely  hope 
that  you  have  not  gone  too  far  already. 

At  this  point,  the  child  itself,  who  has  hitherto  been 
regarding  you  with  an  expression  of  mingled  horror 
and  disgust,  puts  an  end  to  the  nonsense  by  beginning 
to  yell  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  at  W'hich  the  priestess 
rushes  forward  and  snatches  it  from  you  with,  "  There, 
there,  there!  What  did  ums  do  to  urns?"  "How 
very  extraordinary !  "  you  say  pleasantly.  "  Whatever 
made  it  go  off  like  that?  "  "  Oh,  why  you  must  have 
done  something  to  her !  "  says  the  mother,  indig- 
nantly; "  the  child  wouldn't  scream  like  that  for  noth- 
ing." It  is  evident  they  think  you  have  been  running 
pins  into  it. 

The  brat  is  calmed  at  last,  and  would  no  doubt  re- 
main quiet  enough,  only  some  mischievous  busybody 
points  you  out  again  with  "  WHio's  this,  baby?  "  and 
the  intelligent  child,  recognizing  you,  howls  louder 
than  ever.  Whereupon,  some  fat  old  lady  remarks  that 
"  It's  strange  how  children  take  a  dislike  to  anyone." 
"  Oh,  tlicy  know,"  replies  another  mysteriously.  "  It's 
a  wonderful  thing."  adds  a  third;  and  then  everybody 
looks  sideways  at  you,  convinced  that  you  are  a  scoun- 
drel of  the  blackest  dye;  and  then  glory  in  the  beauti- 
ful idea  that  your  true  character,  unguessed  by  your 
fellow-men,  has  been  discovered  by  the  untaught  in- 
stinct of  a  little  child. 

Babies,  though,  with  all  their  crimes  and  errors,  are 
not  without  their  use — not  without  use,  surely,  when 
they  fill  an  empty  heart;  not  w^ithout  use  when,  at 
their  call,  sunbeams  of  love  bre  k  throup-h  care-clouded 


ON   BABIES  179 

faces;  not  without  use  when  their  little  fingers  press 
wrinkles  into  smiles. 

Odd  little  people !  They  are  the  unconscious  come- 
dians of  the  world's  great  stage.  They  supply  the 
humor  in  life's  all  too  heavy  drama.  Each  one,  a 
small  but  determined  opposition  to  the  order  of  things 
in  general,  is  for  ever  doing  the  wrong  thing,  at  the 
wrong  time,  in  the  wrong  place,  and  in  the  wrong 
way.  The  nurse-girl,  who  sent  Jenny  to  see  what 
Tommy  and  Totty  were  doing,  and  "  tell  'em  they 
mustn't,"  knew  infantile  nature.  Give  an  average 
baby  a  fair  chance,  and  if  it  doesn't  do  something  it 
oughtn't  to,  a  doctor  should  be  called  in  at  once. 

They  have  a  genius  for  doing  the  most  ridiculous 
things,  and  they  do  them  in  a  grave,  stoical  manner 
that  is  irresistible.  The  business-like  air  with  which 
two  of  them  will  join  hands  and  proceed  due  east  at 
a  break-neck  toddle,  while  an  excitable  big  sister  is 
roaring  for  them  to  follow  her  in  a  westerly  direction, 
is  most  amusing — except,  perhaps,  for  the  big  sister. 
They  walk  round  a  soldier,  staring  at  his  legs  with 
the  greatest  curiosity,  and  poke  him  to  see  if  he  is 
real.  They  stoutly  maintain,  against  all  argument,  and 
much  to  the  discomfort  of  the  victim,  that  the  bashful 
young  man  at  the  end  of  the  'bus  is  "  dadda."  A 
crowded  street  corner  suggests  itself  to  their  minds 
as  a  favorable  spot  for  the  discussion  of  family  affairs 
at  a  shrill  treble,  ^^'hen  in  the  middle  of  crossing  the 
road,  they  are  seized  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  dance, 
and  the  door-step  of  a  busy  shop  is  the  place  they 
always  select  for  sitting  down  and  taking  ofif  their 
shoes. 


l80  HUMOROUS 

When  at  home,  they  find  the  biggest  walking  stick 
in  the  house,  or  an  nmljrella — open  preferred — of 
much  assistance  in  getting  upstairs.  They  discover 
that  they  love  Mary  Ann  at  the  precise  moment  when 
that  faithful  domestic  is  blackleading  the  stove,  and 
nothing  will  relieve  their  feelings  but  to  embrace  her 
then  and  there.  With  regard  to  food,  their  favorite 
dishes  are  coke  and  bread  dough.  They  nurse  pussy 
upside  down,  and  they  show  their  affection  for  the  dog 
by  pulling  his  tail. 

They  are  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  they  make  a 
place  untidy,  and  they  cost  a  lot  of  money  to  keep; 
but  still  we  would  not  have  the  house  without  them. 
It  would  not  be  home  without  their  noisy  tongues  and 
their  mischief-making  hands.  Would  not  the  rooms 
seem  silent  without  their  pattering  feet,  and  might 
not  you  stray  apart  if  no  prattling  voices  called  you 
together? 

The  world !  the  small  round  world !  what  a  vast, 
mysterious  place  it  must  seem  to  baby  eyes!  What 
a  trackless  continent  the  back  garden  appears !  What 
marvellous  explorations  they  make  in  the  cellar  under 
the  stairs  I  With  what  awe  they  gaze  down  the  long 
street,  wondering,  like  us  bigger  babies,  when  we 
gaze  up  at  the  stars,  where  it  all  ends! 

And  down  that  longest  street  of  all — that  long, 
dim  street  of  life  that  stretches  out  before  them — what 
grave,  old-fashioned  looks  they  seem  to  cast!  What 
pitiful,  frightened  looks  sometimes!  I  saw  a  little 
mite  sitting  on  a  doorstep  in  the  slums  one  night,  and 
I  shall  never  forget  the  look  that  the  gas-lamp  showed 
me  on  its  wizen  face — a  look  of  dull  despair,  as  if, 


ON   BABIES  l8l 

from  the  squalid  court,  the  vista  of  its  own  squalid 
life  had  risen,  ghost-Hke,  and  struck  its  heart  dead 
with  horror. 

Poor  little  feet,  just  commencing  the  stony  jour- 
ney !  We,  old  travellers,  far  down  the  road,  can  only 
pause  to  wave  a  hand  to  you.  You  come  out  of  the 
dark  mist,  and  we  looking  back,  see  you,  so  tiny  in 
the  distance,  standing  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  your 
arms  stretched  out  toward  us.  God  speed  you !  We 
would  stay  and  take  your  little  hands  in  ours,  but  the 
murmur  of  the  great  sea  is  in  our  ears,  and  we  may 
not  linger.  We  must  hasten  down,  for  the  shadow 
ships  are  waiting  to  spread  their  sable  sails. 


DICK    SWIVELLER   AND   THE 
MARCHIONESS 

CHARLES    DICKENS 

Richard  Swiveller,  being  often  left  alone,  began 
to  find  the  time  hang  heavy  on  his  hands.  Eor 
the  better  preservation  of  his  cheerfulness,  therefore, 
and  to  prevent  his  faculties  from  rusting,  he  provided 
himself  with  a  cribbage-board  and  pack  of  cards,  and 
accustomed  himself  to  play  at  cribbage  with  a  dummy, 
for  twenty,  thirty,  or  sometimes  even  fifty  thousand 
pounds  a  side,  besides  many  hazardous  bets  to  a  con- 
siderable amount. 

As  these  games  were  very  silently  conducted,  not- 
withstanding the  magnitude  of  the  interests  involved, 
Mr.  Swiveller  began  to  think  that  on  those  evenings 
when  Mr.  and  Miss  Brass  were  out  he  heard  a  kind 
of  snorting  or  hard-breathing  sound  in  the  direction 
of  the  door,  which  it  occurred  to  him,  after  some  reflec- 
tion, must  proceed  from  the  small  servant,  who  always 
had  a  cold  from  damp  living.  Looking  intently  that 
way  one  night,  he  plainly  distinguished  an  eye  gleam- 
ing and  glistening  at  the  key-hole;  and  having  now 
no  doubt  that  his  suspicions  were  correct,  he  stole 
softly  to  the  door,  and  pounced  upon  her  before  she 
was  aware  of  his  approach. 

*'  Oh !    I  didn't  mean  any  harm,  indeed,  upon  my 

word  I   didn't,"   cried   the   small  servant,   struggling 

1S2 


DICK    SWIVELLFR   AND    "^^TE    MARCHIONESS      183 

like  a  much  larg-er  one.  "  It's  so  very  dull  down- 
stairs.    Please  don't  tell  upon  me,  please  don't." 

"  Tell  upon  you  !  "  said  Dick.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  you  were  looking  through  the  key-hole  for  com- 
pany? " 

"  Yes,  upon  my  word  I  was,"  replied  the  small  ser- 
vant. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  cooling  your  eye 
there?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Oh,  ever  since  you  first  began  to  play  them  cards, 
and  long  before." 

Vague  recollections  of  several  fantastic  exercises 
with  which  he  had  refreshed  himself  after  the  fatigues 
of  business,  and  to  all  of  which,  no  doubt,  the  small 
servant  was  a  party,  rather  disconcerted  Mr.  Swiveller; 
but  he  was  not  very  sensitive  on  such  points,  and  re- 
covered himself  speedily. 

"  Well,  come  in  " — he  said,  after  a  little  considera- 
tion. "  Here — sit  down,  and  I'll  teach  you  how  to 
play." 

"  Oh!  I  durstn't  do  it,"  rejoined  the  small  servant; 
"  Miss  Sally  'ud  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I  come  up  here." 

"  Have  you  got  a  fire  down-stairs?  "  said  Dick. 

"  A  very  little  one,"  replied  the  small  servant. 

"  Miss  Sally  couldn't  kill  me  if  she  know'd  I  went 
down  there,  so  I'll  come,"  said  Richard,  putting  the 
cards  into  his  pocket.  "Why,  how  thin  you  are! 
What  do  you  mean  by  it?  " 

"  It  ain't  my  fault." 

"  Could  you  eat  any  bread  and  meat?"  said  Dick, 
taking  down  his  hat.  "Yes?  xA-h!  I  thought  so.  Die* 
Vou  ever  taste  beer?  " 


I84  HUMOROUS 

"  I  had  a  sip  of  it  once,"  said  the  small  servant. 

"  Here's  a  state  of  things !  "  cried  Mr.  Swiveller,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  the  ceiling.  "  She  never  tasted  it — it 
can't  be  tasted  in  a  sip!    Why,  how  old  are  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

Mr.  Swiveller  opened  his  eyes  very  wide,  and  ap- 
peared thoughtful  for  a  moment;  then  bidding  the 
child  mind  the  door  until  he  came  back,  vanished 
straightway. 

Presently  he  returned,  followed  by  the  boy  from  the 
public-house,  who  bore  in  one  hand  a  plate  of  bread 
and  beef,  and  in  the  other  a  great  pot,  filled  with  some 
very  fragrant  compound,  which  sent  forth  a  grateful 
steam,  and  was  indeed  a  choice  purl,  made  after  a  par- 
ticular recipe  which  Mr.  Swiveller  had  imparted  to  the 
landlord,  at  a  period  when  he  was  deep  in  his  books 
and  desirous  to  conciliate  his  friendship.  Relieving 
the  boy  of  his  burden  at  the  door,  and  charging  his 
little  companion  to  fasten  it,  to  prevent  surprise,  Mr. 
Swiveller  followed  her  into  the  kitchen. 

"  There  !  "  said  Richard,  putting  the  plate  before  her. 
"  First  of  all,  clear  that  off,  and  then  you'll  see  what's 
next." 

The  small  servant  needed  no  second  bidding,  and 
the  plate  was  soon  empty. 

"  Next,"  said  Dick,  handing  the  purl,  "  take  a  pull 
at  that;  but  moderate  your  transports,  you  know,  foi 
you're  not  used  to  it.    Well,  is  it  good?  " 

"  Oh!   isn't  it?  "  said  the  small  servant. 

Mr.  Swiveller  appeared  gratified  beyond  all  expres- 
sion by  this  reply,  and  took  a  long  draught  himself; 
steadfastly  regarding  his  companion  while  he  did  so. 


DICK   SWIVELLER   AND   THE    MARCHIONESS      1 85 

These  preliminaries  disposed  of,  he  appHed  himself  to 
teaching  her  the  game,  which  she  soon  learned  toler- 
ably well,  being  both  sharp-witted  and  cunning. 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  putting  two  sixpences 
into  a  saucer,  and  trimming  the  wretched  candle,  when 
the  cards  had  been  cut  and  dealt,  "  those  are  the  stakes. 
If  you  win,  you  get  'em  all.  If  I  win,  I  get  'em.  To 
make  it  seem  more  real  and  pleasant,  I  shall  call  you 
the  Marchioness,  do  you  hear?  " 

The  small  servant  nodded. 

"  Then,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "  fire 
away." 

The  Marchioness,  holding  her  cards  very  tight  in 
both  hands,  considered  which  to  play,  and  Mr,  Swivel- 
ler, assuming  the  gay  and  fashionable  air  which  such 
society  required,  took  another  pull  at  the  tankard,  and 
waited  for  her  lead. 

Mr.  Swiveller  and  his  partner  played  several  rubbers 
with  varying  success,  until  the  loss  of  three  sixpences, 
the  gradual  sinking  of  the  purl,  and  the  striking  of  ten 
o'clock,  combined  to  render  that  gentleman  mindful 
of  the  flight  of  Time,  and  the  expediency  of  withdraw- 
ing before  Mr.  Sampson  and  Miss  Sally  Brass  re- 
turned. 

"  With  which  object  in  view,  Marchioness,"  said 
Mr.  Swiveller,  gravely,  "  I  shall  ask  your  ladyship's 
permission  to  put  the  board  in  my  pocket,  and  to  re- 
tire from  the  presence  when  I  have  finished  this  tank- 
ard; merely  observing.  Marchioness,  that  since  life 
like  a  river  is  flowing,  I  care  not  how  fast  it  rolls  on, 
ma'am,  on,  while  such  purl  on  the  bank  still  is  grow- 
ing,  and    such    eyes    light    the   waves    as    they    run. 


l86  HUMOROUS 

Marchioness,  your  health.  You  will  excuse  me  wear- 
ing my  hat,  but  the  palace  is  clamp,  and  the  marble 
floor  is — if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expression — sloppy." 

As  a  precaution  against  this  latter  inconvenience, 
Mr.  Swiveller  had  been  sitting  for  some  time  with  his 
feet  on  the  hob,  in  which  attitude  he  now  gave  utter- 
ance to  these  apologetic  observations,  and  slowly 
sipped  the  last  choice  drops  of  nectar. 

"  The  Baron  Sampsono  Brasso  and  his  fair  sister 
are  (you  tell  me)  at  the  Play?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
leaning  his  left  arm  heavily  upon  the  table,  and  rais- 
ing his  voice  and  his  right  leg  after  the  manner  of 
a  theatrical  bandit. 

The  Marchioness  nodded. 

"  Ha !  "  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  with  a  portentous  frown, 
"  'Tis  well.  Marchioness ! — but  no  matter.  Some 
wine  there.  Ho  !  "  He  illustrated  these  melodramatic 
morsels  by  handing  the  tankard  to  himself  with  great 
humility,  receiving  it  haughtily,  drinking  from  it 
thirstily,  and  smacking  his  lips  fiercely. 

The  small  servant,  who  was  not  so  well  acquainted 
with  theatrical  conventionalities  as  Mr.  Swiveller,  was 
rather  alarmed  by  demonstrations  so  novel  in  their 
nature,  and  showed  her  concern  so  plainly  in  her  looks, 
that  Mr.  Swiveller  felt  it  necessary  to  discharge  his 
brigand  manner  for  one  more  suitable  to  private  life, 
as  he  asked, 

"  Do  they  often  go  where  glory  waits  'em,  and  leave 
you  here?  " 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  believe  you  they  do,"  returned  the 
small  servant.  "  Miss  Sally's  such  a  one-er  for  tl^at, 
she  is." 


DICK   SWIVELLER   AND   THE    MARCHIONESS      187 

"  Such  a  what?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Such  a  one-er,"  returned  the  Marchioness. 

After  a  moment's  reflection.  Mr.  Swiveller  deter- 
mined to  forego  his  responsible  duty  of  setting  her 
right,  and  to  suffer  her  to  talk  on;  as  it  was  evident 
that  her  tongue  was  loosened  by  the  purl,  and  her 
opportunities  for  conversation  were  not  so  frequent 
as  to  render  a  momentary  check  of  little  consequence. 

"  Is  Mr.  Brass  a  wunner?  "  said  Dick. 

"  Not  half  what  Miss  Sally  is,  he  isn't."  replied  the 
small  servant,  shaking  her  head.  "  Bless  you,  he'd 
never  do  anything  without  her." 

"  Oh!    he  wouldn't,  wouldn't  he?  "  said  Dick. 

"  jMiss  Sally  keeps  him  in  such  order,"  said  the  small 
servant;  *'  he  always  asks  her  advice,  he  does;  and  he 
catches  it  sometimes.  Bless  you,  you  wouldn't  believe 
how  much  he  catches  it." 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Dick,  "  that  they  consult  together 
a  good  deal,  and  talk  about  a  great  many  people — 
about  me,  for  instance,  sometimes,  eh,  ^Marchioness?  " 

The  Marchioness  nodded  amazingly. 

"Complimentary?"  said  Mr.  Swiveller. 

The  JMarchioness  changed  the  motion  of  her  head, 
which  had  not  yet  left  off  nodding,  and  suddenly  be- 
gan to  shake  it  from  side  to  side,  with  a  vehemence 
w'hich  threatened  to  dislocate  her  neck. 

"  Humph !  "  Dick  muttered.  *'  Would  it  be  any 
breach  of  confidence,  IMarchioness,  to  relate  what  they 
say  of  the  humble  individual  who  has  now  the  honor 
to " 

"  Miss  Sally  savs  vou're  a  funny  chap,"  replied  his 
friend. 


188  HUMOROUS 

"  Well,  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  "  that's 
not  uncomplimentary.  Merriment,  Marchioness,  is  not 
a  bad  or  a  degrading  quality.  Old  King  Cole  was 
himself  a  merry  old  soul,  if  we  may  put  any  faith  in 
the  pages  of  history." 

"  But  she  says,"  pursued  his  companion,  "  that  you 
ain't  to  be  trusted." 

"  Why,  really.  Marchioness,"  said  Mr.  Swiveller, 
thoughtfully;  "  several  ladies  and  gentlemen — not  ex- 
actly professional  persons,  but  trades-people,  ma'am, 
trades-people,  have  made  the  same  remark.  The  ob- 
scure citizen  who  keeps  the  hotel  over  the  way  inclined 
strongly  to  that  opinion  to-night  when  I  ordered  him 
to  prepare  the  banquet.  It's  a  popular  prejudice, 
Marchioness;  and  yet  I  am  sure  I  don't  know  why, 
for  I  have  been  trusted  in  my  time  to  a  considerable 
amount,  and  I  can  safely  say  that  I  never  forsook  my 
trust  until  it  deserted  me — never.  Mr.  Brass  is  of  the 
same  opinion,  I  suppose?" 

His  friend  nodded  again,  with  a  cunning  look  which 
seemed  to  hint  that  Mr.  Brass  held  stronger  opinions 
on  the  subject  than  his  sister;  and  seeming  to  recol- 
lect herself,  added,  imploringly,  "  But  don't  you  ever 
tell  upon  me,  or  I  shall  be  beat  to  death." 

"  Marchioness."  said  Mr.  Swiveller,  rising,  "  the 
w^ord  of  a  gentleman  is  as  good  as  his  bond — some^ 
times  better,  as  in  the  present  case,  where  his  bond 
might  prove  but  a  doubtful  sort  of  security.  I  am 
your  friend,  and  I  hope  we  shall  play  many  more  rub- 
bers together  in  this  same  saloon.  But,  Marchioness," 
added  Richard,  stopping  in  his  way  to  the  door,  and 
wheeling  slowly  round  upon  the  small  servant,  who 


DICK   SWIVELLER   AND   THE    MARCHIONESS      1 89 

was  following  with  the  candle;  "  it  occnrs  to  me  that 
yon  mnst  be  in  the  constant  habit  of  airing  your  eye 
at  key-holes,  to  know  all  this." 

"  I  only  wanted,"  replied  the  trembling  Marchioness, 
"  to  know  where  the  key  of  the  safe  was  hid;  that  was 
all;  and  I  wouldn't  have  taken  much,  if  I  had  found 
it — only  enough  to  squench  my  hunger." 

"You  didn't  find  it,  then?"  said  Dick.  "But  of 
course  you  didn't,  or  you'd  be  plumper.  Good-night, 
Marchioness.  Fare  thee  well,  and  if  forever,  then  for- 
ever fare  thee  well." 


THE   RECONSIDERED   VERDICT 
A  True  Story 

GILBERT    VENABLES 

True  in  substance,  though  I  tell  it  from  a  memory 
not  very  retentive  of  details,  and,  though  true,  prob- 
ably new  to  many  of  my  readers,  is  the  story  of  the 
"  Reconsidered  Verdict." 

Some  sixty  years  ago  the  case  was  tried  at  Chester, 
before  a  judge  of  great  ability  and  eminence,  and  a 
jury  whose  intelligence — but  you  shall  hear.  In  the 
preceding  spring — April,  I  think,  was  the  month — ■ 
there  had  been  a  bad  case  of  burglary  at  a  farmhouse 
in  Cheshire.  Three  men  had  tied  down  and  gagged 
the  farmer  and  his  two  maid-servants,  and  had  rifled 
the  house  at  their  leisure.  The  police  were  told  of 
the  matter,  and  pretty  accurate  descriptions  were  given 
of  the  men.  There  were  two  other  clews.  In  the 
struggle,  one  of  the  men  had  lost  a  button  from  his 
coat,  which  button  he  had  left  behind.  Also,  the  same 
man  had  had  his  face  so  severely  scratched  by  one  of 
the  maids,  that  the  girl  said  "  she  was  sure  she  had  lef^ 
her  mark  upon  him." 

Weeks  passed  without  any  arrest  being  made,  and 
people  began  to  forget  the  burglary,  until  one  day 
a  man  was  taken  up  at  Liverpool  on  suspicion  of 


THE   RECONSIDERED   VERDICT  I9I 

being  concerned  in  quite  a  different  matter.  He  had 
with  him  a  bundle  containing  some  of  the  phmder 
of  the  farmhouse.  More  of  the  phmder  was  found  at 
his  lodgings.  His  face  bore  traces  of  recent  scratch- 
ing; and,  to  cHnch  the  matter,  his  coat  wanted  a  but- 
ton, and  the  buttons  on  it  corresponded  exactly  with 
that  picked  up  at  the  scene  of  the  burglary.  His  de- 
fence was  very  flimsy — "  He  knew  nothing  about  the 
burglary,  and  had  bought  the  coat  and  things  very 
cheap  of  a  man  in  the  street."  "  Did  he  know  the 
man?"  "No,  never  saw  him  before  nor  since." 
"  How  about  the  scratches?  "  "  Well,  he  was  a  sailor, 
and  too  much  accustomed  to  big  hurts  to  take  notice 
of  scratches."  Of  course  he  was  committed  for  trial, 
and  the  trial,  as  I  said,  came  on  at  Chester. 

It  excited  a  good  deal  of  interest,  and  the  court 
was  crowded;  an  invalid,  staying  at  the  principal  inn, 
so  far  shaking  off  a  touch  of  tropical  fever  as  to  send 
in  his  card  to  the  judge,  and  ask  for  a  place  behind 
the  bar.  And  yet  after  all  there  was  very  little  to  be 
said.  The  circumstantial  testimony  above  given  w^as 
overwhelming,  and,  in  addition  to  that,  farmer  and 
servants  w-ith  one  accord  swore  to  the  identity  of  the 
prisoner  with  the  burglar.  There  w^as  no  defence;  the 
jury  found  a  verdict  of  "  guilty  "  without  leaving  the 
box;  and,  as  burglary  was  a  hanging  matter  in  those 
days,  it  merely  remained  to  pass  sentence  of  death. 
Only  a  formula  between  him  and  judgment :  "  Pris- 
oner at  the  bar,  you  have  heard  the  verdict  of  the  jury. 
Have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  of  death 
should  not  be  passed  upon  you?" 

Then  the  prisoner  spoke  for  the  first  time.     Just 


192  HUMOROUS 

brushing  his  eyes  with  the  cuff  of  his  coat,  he  began: 
"  Well,  cap'n,  it's  hard  to  be  hung  for  noth'n',  but  I 
can  see  this  is  a  yard-arm  business.  I  know  no  more 
of  this  'ere  burglary  nor  a  babby;  but  these  witnesses 
ha'n't  told  no  lies,  I  s'pose.  And  what  can  I  say  agen 
'em?  When  this  thing  came  off — April,  didn't  they 
say — I  was  fightin'  the  slavers  on  the  Gold  Coast.  But 
you've  got  no  call  to  believe  that,  and  so  there's  an 
end  to  it." 

There  was  something  in  the  man's  manner  that  im- 
pressed the  judge,  so  he  said,  not  unkindly :  "  But 
surely,  prisoner,  if  your  story  is  true,  you  must  have 
friends  and  comrades  with  whom  you  could  have 
communicated.  If  you  had  thought  they  could  do 
you  good  you  would  have  done  this.  It  is  too  late 
now." 

"  You're  right,  cap'n;  it's  too  late.  But  it's  all  very 
well  to  say  '  let  'em  know  '  when  a  man  is  locked  up 
in  jail,  and  can't  write  nor  read,  and  don't  know  where 
they  are.  They  may  be  in  America,  they  may  be  at 
the  Cape,  and  how  could  I  ever  let  'em  know;  least- 
ways, not  in  time?  No,  it's  no  use,  and  you'd  better 
order  me  to  be  run  up  at  the  yard-arm  at  once." 

"  But,"  urged  the  judge,  "  the  Court  has  no  wish  to 
hang  a  man  who  may  be  innocent.  Is  there  no  one 
to  speak  for  you?  " 

The  man  looked  in  a  hopeless  sort  of  way  round  the 
court. 

"  No,"  he  began;  but  just  then  his  eye  lighted  on 
the  stranger  from  the  inn.  "  Yes,"  he  added,  point- 
ing to  him,  "  there  is  a  gentleman  who  might  speak 
for  me  if  he  would." 


THE   RECONSIDERED    VERDICT  I95 

The  judge  turned  round.  "  Do  you  know  the 
prisoner?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  my  lord,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  never  saw  him 
before  in  my  life." 

"  Well,  Captain  Sharpe/'  said  the  prisoner,  "  if  you 
put  the  rope  round  ni}-  neck,  1  give  in.  Go  on,  my 
lord." 

"  Stay,"  said  the  judge;  "  is  your  name  Captain 
Sharpe?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord;  "  and  "  Captain  Sharpe,  R.N.,"  was 
on  the  card  he  had  sent  in. 

"  Well,  the  prisoner  seems  to  recognize  you,  so  I 
will  ask  you  to  step  into  the  witness-box,  and  be  sworn, 
that  he  may  ask  you  questions."  The  Captain  went 
into  the  box,  and  the  following  dialogue  ensued: 

"  Are  you  Captain  Sharpe,  of  his  Majesty's  ship 
Vulture?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Were  you  in  command  of  her  on  the  slave  coast 
this  spring?  " 

"  I  was." 

"  And  wasn't  I  one  of  your  crew?  " 

"  Most  certainly  not." 

*'  But,  cap'n,  don't  you  remember  the  big  slaver 
that  gave  you  all  the  trouble,  that  you  had  to  board?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  you,  yourself,  led  the  boarders?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  but  all  that  is  nothing,  you  may  easily 
have  heard  or  read  about  that." 

"  Well,  but,  cap'n,  once  more:  don't  you  remember 
the  big  nigger  that  was  almost  cutting  you  down? 
Don't  you  remember  the  man  who  stood  between  you 


194  HUMOROUS 

and  death,  and  what  he  got  for  it?  Don't  you  remem- 
ber tJiat "  and  brushing  back  his  hair,  the  prisoner 

showed  a  great  scar  down  one  side  of  his  head. 

The  whole  court  looked  on  breathless,  as  the  cap- 
tain stared  at  the  scar  and  the  man  till  his  eyes  seemed 
starting  from  his  head.  At  length,  as  if  in  a  dream, 
the  captain  muttered  to  himself,  "  Good  God,  is  it 
possible?  " 

Then,  slowly  and  deliberately,  he  got  out  of  the  wit- 
ness-box, and  clambered  into  the  dock,  where  he 
seized  the  prisoner's  hand,  and  turning  to  the  judge, 
said :  "  My  lord,  this  was  the  best  man  in  my  crew, 
and  he  saved  my  life.  Providence  has  sent  me  here 
to  save  his.  He  is  so  changed  by  illness  and  imprison- 
ment that  I  could  not  recognize  him.  But  there  is  no 
mistake  now,  and  if  you  hang  the  old  bo'sun  of  the 
Vulture,  you  must  hang  his  captain  with  him." 

There  followed  a  scene  rarely  witnessed  in  a  court 
of  justice.  Amid  cheers  and  sobs  that  no  one  cared 
to  suppress,  the  judge  briefly  directed  the  jury  to  re- 
consider their  verdict,  which  they  at  once  did,  finding 
a  unanimous  "  not  guilty."  The  prisoner  was  dis- 
charged, and  left  the  dock  arm-in-arm  with  the  cap- 
tain. They  were  hurried  into  a  chaise,  and  drawn  to 
the  inn  in  a  triumphal  procession,  and  after  a  sumptu- 
ous lunch,  they  posted  off  together  to  London. 

As  they  cleared  the  ancient  town,  Captain  Sharpe 
might  have  been  heard  addressing  his  companion 
somewhat  as  follows : 

"  Well,  old  pal,  we  pulled  through  that  business 
pretty  well,  I  think.  But  it  was  a  near  go.  That  was 
a  good  notion  of  Wily  Bob's  to  wait  for  the  verdict  be- 


THE   RECONSIDERED    VERDICT  I95 

fore  moving.    We  could  never  have  touched  that  evi- 
dence." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  innocent  and  long-suffering 
boatswain  of  the  Vulture;  '"  and  if  you  had  cottoned 
to  me  a  minute  too  soon,  the  old  beak  would  have 
been  fly  to  the  trick.  Lor,  I  was  fit  to  burst  when  the 
old  boy  began  to  cry." 

From  which  brief  dialogue  we  gather  that  "  Captair. 
Sharpe  "  might  have  known  more  of  the  burglary  thai: 
of  the  Vulture, 

Nothing  more  was  ever  heard  of  either  of  them 
Such  is  the  story  of  "  The  Reconsidered  Verdict." 

"  Magna  est  Veritas,  et  praevalebit." 


THE  IMAGINARY   INVALID 

JEROME    K.    JEROME 

I  remember  going  to  the  British  Museum  one  day 
to  read  up  the  treatment  for  some  sHght  aihnent  of 
which  I  had  a  touch — hay  fever,  I  fancy  it  was.  I 
got  down  the  book,  and  read  all  I  came  to  read;  and 
then,  in  an  unthinking  moment,  I  idly  turned  the 
leaves,  and  began  to  indolently  study  diseases  gener- 
ally. I  forget  which  was  the  first  distemper  I  plunged 
into — some  fearful,  devastating  scourge  I  know — 
and,  before  I  had  glanced  half  down  the  list  of  "  pre- 
monitory symptoms,"  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  that 
I  had  fairly  got  it. 

I  sat  for  a  while,  frozen  with  horror;  and  then,  in 
the  listlessness  of  despair,  I  again  turned  over  the 
pages.  I  came  to  typhoid  fever — read  the  symptoms 
— discovered  that  I  had  typhoid  fever,  must  have  had 
it  for  months  without  knowing  it — wondered  what 
else  I  had  got;  turned  up  St.  Vitus's  Dance — found, 
as  I  expected,  that  I  had  that  too, — began  to  get  in- 
terested in  my  case,  and  determined  to  sift  it  to  the 
bottom,  and  so  started  alphabetically — read  up  ague, 
and  learned  that  I  was  sickening  for  it,  and  that  the 
acute  stage  would  commence  in  about  another  fort- 
night. Bright's  disease,  I  was  relieved  to  find,  I  had 
only  in  a  modified  form,  and,  so  far  as  that  was  con- 


THE   nrAGINARY   INVALID  197 

cerned,  I  might  live  for  years.  Cholera  I  had,  with 
severe  complications;  and  diphtheria  I  seemed  to 
have  been  born  with.  I  plodded  conscientiously 
through  the  twenty-six  letters,  and  the  only  malady 
I  could  conclude  I  had  not  got  was  housemaid's  knee. 

I  felt  rather  hurt  about  this  at  first;  it  seemed  some- 
how to  be  a  sort  of  slight.  Why  hadn't  1  got  house- 
maid's knee?  Why  this  invidious  reservation?  After 
a  while,  however,  less  grasping  feelings  prevailed.  I 
reflected  that  I  had  every  other  known  malady  in  the 
pharmacology,  and  grew  less  selfish,  and  determined 
to  do  without  housemaid's  knee.  Gout,  in  its  most 
malignant  stage,  it  would  appear,  had  seized  me  with- 
out my  being  aware  of  it;  and  zymosis  L  had  evidently 
been  suffering  with  from  b^^wTUu?^  ihere  were  no 
more  diseases  after  zymosis,  so  I  concluded  there  was 
nothing  else  the  matter  with  me. 

I  sat  and  pondered.  I  thought  what  an  interesting 
case  I  must  be  from  a  medical  point  of  view,  what 
an  acquisition  I  should  be  to  a  class !  Students  would 
have  no  need  to  "  walk  the  hospitals,"  if  they  had  me. 
I  was  a  hospital  in  myself.  All  they  need  do  would 
be  to  walk  round  me,  and,  after  that,  take  their  di- 
ploma. 

Then  I  wondered  how  long  I  had  to  live.  I  tried 
to  examine  myself.  I  felt  my  pulse.  I  could  not  at 
first  feel  any  pulse  at  all.  Then,  all  cf  a  sudden.  It 
seemed  to  start  off.  I  pulled  out  my  w^atch  and  timed 
^t.  I  made  a  hundred  and  forty-seven  to  the  minute. 
I  tried  to  feel  my  heart.  I  could  not  feel  my  heart. 
It  had  stopped  beating.  I  have  since  been  induced  to 
come  to  the  opinion  that  it  must  have  been  there  all 


igS  HUMOROUS 

the  time,  and  must  have  been  beating,  but  I  cannot 
account  for  it.  I  patted  myself  all  over  my  front,  from 
what  I  call  my  waist  up  to  my  head,  and  I  went  a 
bit  round  each  side,  and  a  little  way  up  the  back.  But 
I  could  not  feel  or  hear  anything.  I  tried  to  look  at 
my  tongue.  I  stuck  it  out  as  far  as  ever  it  would 
go,  and  I  shut  one  eye,  and  tried  to  examine  it  with 
the  other.  I  could  only  see  the  tip,  and  the  only  thing 
that  I  could  gain  from  that  was  to  feel  more  certain 
than  before  that  I  had  scarlet  fever. 

I  had  walked  into  that  reading-room  a  happy, 
healthy'^unT    I  crawled  out  a  decrepit  wreck.      .       j 

I  went  to  my  medical  man.  He  is  an  old  ottmr  ol 
mine,  and  feels  my  pulse,  and  looks  at  my  tongue,  and 
talks  about  the  weather,  all  for  nothing,  when  I  fancy 
I'm  ill;  so  I  thought  I  would  do  him  a  good  turn 
by  going  to  him  now.  "  What  a  doctor  wants,"  I 
said,  "  is  practice.  He  shall  have  me.  He  will  get 
more  practice  out  of  me  than  out  of  seventeen  hun- 
dred of  your  ordinary,  commonplace  patients,  with 
only  one  or  two  diseases  each."  So  I  went  straight 
up  and  saw  him,  and  he  said : 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you?" 

I  said : 

"  I  will  not  take  up  your  time,  dear  boy,  with  te'il- 
ing  you  what  is  the  matter  with  me.  Life  is  brief, 
and  you  might  pass  away  before  I  had  finished.  But 
I  will  tell  you  what  is  not  the  matter  with  me.  I  have 
not  got  housemaid's  knee.  Why  I  have  not  got 
housemaid's  knee,  I  cannot  tell  you;  but  the  fact  re- 
mains that  I  have  not  got  it.  Everything  else,  how- 
ever, I  Jiave  got." 


THE   IMAGINARY   INVALID  I99 

And  I  told  him  how  I  came  to  (hscover  it  all. 

Then  he  opened  me  and  looked  down  me,  and 
clutched  hold  of  my  wrist,  and  then  he  hit  me  over 
the  chest  when  I  wasn't  expecting  it — a  cowardly  thing 
to  do,  I  call  it — and  immediately  afterward  butted  me 
with  the  side  of  his  head.  After  that,  he  sat  down  and 
wrote  out  a  prescription,  and  folded  it  up  and  gave 
it  me,  and  I  put  it  in  my  pocket  and  went  out. 

I  did  not  open  it.  I  took  it  to  the  nearest  chemist's, 
and  handed  it  in.  The  man  read  it,  and  then  handed 
it  back. 

He  said  he  didn't  keep  it. 

I  said : 

*'  You  are  a  chemist?  " 

"  I  am  a  chemist.  If  I  was  a  co-operative  store  and 
family  hotel  combined,  I  might  be  able  to  oblige  you. 
Being  only  a  chemist  hampers  me." 

I  read  the  prescription.     It  ran: 
"  I   lb.  beefsteak,  with 

every  6  hours. 

I  ten-mile  walk  every  morning, 

I  bed  at  1 1  sharp  every  night. 
And  don't  stuff  up  your  head  with  things  you  don't 
understand." 


THAT   OTHER    BABY   AT   RUDDER 
GRANGE 

FRANK    R.    STOCKTON 

[We  had  been  married  three  years,  and  no  couple 
were  ever  happier.  WHien  we  moved  out  into  the 
country,  Pomona  and  Jonas  went  with  us.  Pomona 
was  our  maid-of-all-work,  and  Jonas,  her  husband, 
looked  after  the  horses  and  took  care  of  the  kitchen 
garden.  They  doted  on  a  little  baby  (which  blessing 
Heaven  had  not  seen  fit  to  bestow  on  us),  and  that 
baby  was  the  cause  of  all  our  trouble.  One  day  in 
an  evil  moment,  my  wife  got  permission  to  wash  and 
dress  that  little  imp,  and  from  that  moment  her  lord 
and  master  seemed  to  pass  entirely  out  of  her  ex- 
istence.] 

I  would  often  say  to  her:  "Why  can't  you  let 
Pomona  attend  to  it?  You  surely  need  not  give  up 
your  whole  time  and  your  whole  mind  to  the  child." 

But  she  would  always  answer  that  Pomona  had  a 
great  many  things  to  do,  and  that  she  couldn't,  at  all 
times,  attend  to  the  baby.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that 
she  should  be  at  the  barn. 

"  There  is  very  little  to  do,"  she  said,  "  and  I  really 
like  to  do  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  I,  "  but  you  spend  so  much  of  your 
time  in  thinking  how  glad  you  will  be  to  do  that  little, 


THAT   OTHER    BABY   AT    RUDDER    GRANGE       20I 

when  it  is  to  l)e  done,  that  you  can't  give  me  any 
attention,  at  all." 

"  Now  yon  have  no  cause  to  say  that,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  You  know  very  well — ,  there !  "  and  away 
she  ran.     It  had  just  begun  to  cry! 

Naturally,  I  was  getting  tired  of  this.  I  could  never 
begin  a  sentence  and  feel  sure  that  I  would  be  allowed 
to  finish  it.  Nothing  was  important  enough  to  delay 
attention  to  an  infantile  whimper. 

At  last  an  idea  grew  and  developed  in  my  mind  un- 
til I  afterward  formed  a  plan  upon  it.  I  determined, 
however,  before  I  carried  out  my  plan,  to  again  try 
to  reason  with  Euphemia. 

"  If  it  was  our  own  baby."  I  said.  "  or  even  the 
child  of  one  of  us.  by  a  former  marriage,  it  would  be 
a  different  thing;  but  to  give  yourself  up  so  entirely 
to  Pomona's  baby,  seems,  to  me.  unreasonable.  In- 
deed. I  never  heard  of  any  case  exactly  like  it.  It  is 
reversing  all  the  usages  of  society  for  the  mistress  to 
take  care  of  the  servant's  baby." 

"  The  usages  of  society  are  not  worth  much,  some- 
times," said  Euphemia,  "  and  you  must  remember  that 
Pomona  is  a  very  different  kind  of  a  person  from  an 
ordinary  servant.  She  is  much  more  like  a  member 
of  the  family — I  can't  exactly  explain  what  kind  of 
a  member,  but  I  understand  it  myself.  She  has  very 
much  improved  since  she  has  been  married,  and  you 
know,  yourself,  how  c|uiet  and — and,  nice  she  is,  and 
as  for  the  baby,  it's  just  as  good  and  pretty  as  any 
baby,  and  it  may  grow  up  to  be  better  than  any  of 
us.  Some  of  our  presidents  have  sprung  from  lowly 
parents." 


202  HUMOROUS 

"  But  this  one  is  a  girl,"  I  said. 

"  Well  then,"  replied  Euphemia,  "  she  may  be  a 
president's  wife." 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  determined  to  carry 
out  my  plan. 

About  three  miles  from  our  house  was  a  settlement 
known  as  New  Dublin,  inhabited  entirely  by  Irish  peo- 
ple. I  was  acquainted  with  one  of  the  matrons  of 
this  locality,  a  Mrs.  Duffy,  who  had  occasionally  un- 
dertaken some  odd  jobs  at  our  house,  and  to  her  I 
made  a  visit. 

''  Mrs.  Duffy,"  said  I,  "  I  want  to  rent  a  baby." 

At  first,  the  good  woman  could  not  understand  me, 
but  when  I  made  plain  to  her  that  I  wished,  for  a  short 
time,  to  obtain  the  exclusive  use  and  control  of  a 
baby,  for  which  I  was  willing  to  pay  a  liberal  rental,  she 
was  perfectly  willing  to  accommodate  me,  but  feared 
she  had  nothing  on  hand  of  the  age  I  desired. 

"  Me  childther  are  all  agoin'  about,"  she  said.  "  Ye 
kin  see  a  poile  uv  'em  out  yon,  in  the  road,  an'  there's 
more  uv  'em  on  the  fince.  But  ye  nade  have  no  fear 
about  gettin'  wan.  There's  sthacks  of  'em  in  the  place. 
I'll  jist  run  over  to  Mrs.  Hogan's  wid  ye.  She's  got 
sixteen  or  siventeen,  mostly  small,  for  Hogan  brought 
four  or  five  wid  him  when  he  married  her,  an'  she'll 
be  glad  to  rint  wan  uv  'em."  So,  throwing  her 
apron  over  her  head,  she  accompanied  me  to  Mrs. 
Hogan's. 

It  soon  became  plain  that  Mrs.  Hogan's  present 
stock  did  not  contain  exactly  what  I  wanted,  and  I 
began  to  despair;  but  finally  secured  a  youngish  infant, 
who  having  been   left  motherless,  had  become  what 


THAT   OTHER   BABY   AT   RUDDER   GRANGE       203 

Mrs.  Duffy  called  a  "  bottle-baby,"  and  was  in  charge 
of  a  neighboring  aunt. 

The  child  suited  me  very  well,  and  I  agreed  to  take 
it  for  as  many  days  as  I  might  happen  to  want  it,  but 
to  pay  by  the  week,  in  advance.  It  was  a  boy,  with 
a  suggestion  of  orange-red  bloom  all  over  its  head, 
and  what  looked,  to  me,  like  freckles  on  its  cheeks; 
while  its  little  nose  turned  up,  even  more  than  those 
of  babies  generally  turn — above  a  very  long  upper  lip. 
His  eyes  were  blue  and  twinkling,  and  he  had  the  very 
mouth  "  fer  a  leetle  poipe,"  as  Mrs.  Hogan  admir- 
ingly remarked. 

When  I  reached  home,  I  drove  directly  to  the  barn. 
Fortunately,  Jonas  was  there.  I  explained  the  whole 
affair  to  him,  he  comprehended  it  perfectly,  and  was 
delighted.  I  think  he  was  just  as  anxious  for  my  plan 
to  work  as  I  was  myself,  although  he  did  not  say  so. 

As  I  passed  the  kitchen  window,  I  saw  Pomona  at 
work.  She  looked  at  me,  dropped  something,  and  I 
heard  a  crash.  I  don't  know  how  much  that  crash 
cost  me.  Jonas  rushed  in  to  tell  Pomona  about  it,  and 
in  a  moment  I  heard  a  scream  of  laughter.  At  this, 
Euphemia  appeared  at  an  upper  window,  with  her  hand 
raised  and  saying,  severely :  "  Hush-h  !  "  But  the  mo- 
ment she  saw  me,  she  disappeared  from  the  window 
and  came  down-stairs  on  the  run.  She  met  me,  just 
as  I  entered  the  dining-room. 

"  What  iti  the  world !  "  she  breathlessly  exclaimed. 

"  This,"  said  I,  "  is  my  baby." 

'*  Your — baby !  "  said  Euphemia.  "  Where  did  you 
get  it?   what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  I  got  it  in  New  Dublin,"  I  replied,  "  and  I  want 


204  HUMOROUS 

it  to  amuse  and  occupy  me  while  I  am  at  home.  I 
haven't  anything-  else  to  do,  except  things  that  take 
me  away  from  you." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Euphemia. 

At  this  moment,  little  Pat  gave  his  first  whimper. 

I  immediately  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
floor  with  him,  and  to  sing  to  him.  I  did  not  know 
any  infant  music,  but  I  felt  sure  that  a  soothing  tune 
was  the  great  requisite,  and  that  the  words  were  of 
small  importance.  So  I  started  on  an  old  Methodist 
tune,  which  I  remembered  very  well,  and  which  was 
used  with  the  hymn  containing  the  lines — 

"  Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore," 

and  I  sang,  as  soothingly  as  I  could — 

"  Lit-tle  Pat-sy,  Wat-sy,  Sat-sy 
Does  he  feel  a  lit-ty  bad.-* 
Me  will  send  and  get  his  bot-tle 
He  sha'n't  have  to  cry-wy-wy." 

"  What  an  idiot !  "  said  Euphemia,  laughing  in  spite 
of  her  vexation. 

'*  No,  we  aint  no  id-i-otses 
What  we  want  is  a  bot-ty  milk." 

So  I  sang  as  I  walked  to  the  kitchen-door,  and  sent 
Jonas  to  the  barn  for  the  bottle. 

Pomona  was  in  spasms  of  laughter  in  the  kitchen, 
and  Euphemia  was  trying  her  best  not  to  laugh  at  all. 

"  Who's  going  to  take  care  of  it,  Fd  like  to  know?  " 
she  said,  as  soon  as  she  could  get  herself  into  a  state 
of  severe  inquiry. 

"Some-times  me,  and  some-times  Jonas," 


THAT   OTHER    BABY   AT   RUDDER   GRANGE       20$ 

I  sang,  still  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with  a 
long,  slow  step,  swinging  the  baby  from  side  to  side, 
very  much  as  if  it  were  grass-seed  in  a  sieve,  and  I  was 
sowing  it  over  the  carpet. 

"  You  really  don't  think  that  I  will  consent  to  your 
keeping  such  a  creature  as  this  in  the  house?  Take 
your  baby,  and  please  carry  him  home  as  quick  as  you 
can,  for  I  am  certainly  not  going  to  take  care  of  him." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  I.  "  Now  that  I  see  how 
it's  done,  I'm  going  to  do  it  myself.  Jonas  will  mix 
his  feed  and  I  will  give  it  to  him.  He  looks  sleepy 
now.  Shall  I  take  him  up-stairs  and  lay  him  on  our 
bed?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  cried  Euphemia.  "  You  can  put  him 
on  a  quilt  on  the  floor,  until  after  luncheon,  and  then 
you  must  take  him  home." 

I  laid  the  young  Milesian  on  the  folded  quilt  which 
Euphemia  prepared  for  him,  where  he  turned  up  his 
little  pug  nose  to  the  ceiling  and  went  contentedly  to 
sleep. 

That  afternoon  I  nailed  four  legs  on  a  small  pack- 
ing-box and  made  a  bedstead  for  him.  This,  with  a 
pillow  in  the  bottom  of  it,  was  very  comfortable,  and 
mstead  of  taking  him  home,  I  borrowed,  in  the  even- 
mg,  some  baby  night-clothes  from  Pomona,  and  set 
about  preparing  Pat  for'  the  night. 

This  Euphemia  would  not  allow,  but  silently  taking 
him  from  me,  she  put  him  to  bed. 

"  To-morrow,"  she  said,  "  you  must  positively  take 
him  away.     I  won't  stand  it.     And  in  our  room,  too." 

"  I  didn't  talk  in  that  way  about  the  baby  you 
adopted,"  I  said. 


206  HUMOROUS 

To  this  she  made  no  answer,  but  went  away  to  at- 
tend, as  usual,  to  Pomona's  baby,  while  its  mother 
washed  the  dishes. 

That  night  little  Pat  woke  up,  several  times,  and 
made  things  unpleasant  by  his  wails.  On  the  first 
two  occasions,  I  got  up  and  walked  him  about,  sing- 
ing impromptu  lines  to  the  tune  of  "  weak  and 
wounded,"  but  the  third  time,  Euphemia  herself  arose, 
and  declaring  that  that  doleful  tune  was  a  great  deal 
worse  than  the  baby's  crying,  silenced  him  herself,  and 
arranging  his  couch  more  comfortably,  he  troubled  us 
no  more. 

Euphemia  scolded  and  scolded,  and  said  she  would 
put  on  her  hat  and  go  for  the  mother.  But  I  told  her 
the  mother  was  dead,  and  that  seemed  to  be  an  ob- 
stacle. She  took  a  good  deal  of  care  of  the  child, 
for  she  said  she  would  not  see  an  innocent  creature 
neglected,  even  if  it  was  an  incipient  hod-carrier,  but 
she  did  not  relax  in  the  least  in  her  attention  to  Po- 
mona's baby. 

The  next  day  was  about  the  same,  in  regard  to  in- 
fantile incident,  but  on  the  day  after,  I  began  to  tire 
of  my  new  charge,  and  Pat,  on  his  side,  seemed  to  be 
tired  of  me,  for  he  turned  from  me  when  I  went  to 
take  him  up,  while  he  would  hold  out  his  hands  to 
Euphemia,  and  grin  delightedly  when  she  took  him. 

That  morning  I  drove  to  the  village  and  spent  an 
hour  or  two  there.  On  my  return  I  found  Euphemia 
sitting  in  our  room,  with  little  Pat  on  her  lap.  I  was 
astonished  at  the  change  in  the  young  rascal.  He 
was  dressed,  from  head  to  foot,  in  a  suit  of  clothes 
belonging  to  Pomona's  baby;    the  glowing  fuzz  on 


THAT   OTHER    BABY   AT    RUDDER   GRANGE       20/ 

his  head  was  brushed  and  made  as  smooth  as  possible, 
while  his  Httle  muslin  sleeves  were  tied  up  with  blue 
ribbon. 

I  stood  speechless  at  the  sight. 

"Don't  he  look  nice?"  said  Euphemia,  standing 
him  up  on  her  knees.  "  It  shows  what  good  clothes 
will  do.  I'm  glad  I  helped  Pomona  make  up  so  many. 
He's  getting  ever  so  fond  of  me,  ze  itty  Patsy,  watsy ! 
See  how  strong  he  is !  He  can  almost  stand  on  his 
legs!  Look  how  he  laughs!  He's  just  as  cunning 
as  he  can  be.  And  oh !  I  was  going  to  speak  about 
that  box.  I  wouldn't  have  him  sleep  in  that  old  pack- 
ing-box. There  are  little  wicker  cradles  at  the  store 
— I  saw  them  last  week — they  don't  cost  much,  and 
you  could  bring  one  up  in  the  carriage.  There's  the 
other  baby,  crying,  and  I  don't  know  where  Pomona 
is.  Just  you  mind  him  a  minute,  please !  "  and  out  she 
ran. 

I  looked  out  of  the  window.  The  horse  still  stood 
harnessed  to  the  carriage,  as  I  had  left  him.  I  saw 
Pat's  old'  shawl  lying  in  a  corner.  I  seized  it,  and 
rolling  him  in  it,  new  clothes  and  all,  I  hurried  down- 
stairs, climbed  into  the  carriage,  hastily  disposed  Pat 
in  my  lap,  and  turned  the  horse  toward  New  Dublin. 

The  good  w'omen  of  the  settlement  were  surprised 
to  see  little  Pat  return  so  soon. 

"  Oh!  jist  look  at  'em!  "  cried  Mrs.  DufYy.  "  An' 
see  thim  leetle  pittycoots,  thrimmed  wid  lace  !  Oh,  an' 
it  was  good  in  ye,  sir,  to  give  him  all  thim,  an'  pay 
the  foive  dollars,  too." 

"  An'  Pm  glad  he's  back,"  said  the  fostering  aunt, 
"  for  I  was  a-coomin'  over  to  till  ye  that  Pve  been 


208  HUMOROUS 

hearin'  from  owle  Pat,  his  dad,  an'  he's  a-comin'  back 
from  the  moines,  and  I  don't  know  what  he'd  'a'  said 
if  he'd  found  his  leetle  Pat  was  rinted.  But  if  ye  iver 
want  to  borry  him,  for  a  whoile,  after  owle  Pat's  gone 
back,  ye  kin  have  him,  rint-free;  an'  it's  much  obloiged 
I  am  to  ye,  sir,  fur  dressin'  him  so  foine." 

I  made  no  encouraging  remarks  as  to  future  transac- 
tions in  this  line,  and  drove  slowly  home. 

Euphemia  met  me  at  the  door.  She  had  Pomona's 
baby  in  her  arms.  We  walked  together  into  the 
parlor. 

"  And  so  you  have  given  up  the  little  fellow  that  you 
were  going  to  do  so  much  for?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  have  given  him  up,"  I  answered. 

"  It  must  have  been  a  dreadful  trial  to  you,"  she 
continued. 

"Oh,  dreadful!"  I  replied. 

"  I  suppose  you  thought  he  would  take  up  so  much 
of  your  time  and  thoughts,  that  we  couldn't  be  to 
each  other  what  we  used  to  be,  didn't  you?  "  she  said. 

"  Not  exactly,"  I  replied.  "  I  only  thought  that 
things  promised  to  be  twice  as  bad  as  they  were  be- 
fore." 

She  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  going  to  the  back 
door  of  the  parlor  she  opened  it  and  called  Pomona. 
When  that  young  woman  appeared,  Euphemia  stepped 
toward  her  and  said :  "  Here,  Pomona,  take  your 
baby." 

They  were  simple  words,  but  they  were  spoken 
in  such  a  way  that  they  meant  a  good  deal.  Pomona 
knew  what  they  meant.  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  as 
she  went  out,  I  saw  her  hug  her  child  to  her  breast, 


THAT    OTHER    BABY    AT    RUDDER    GRANGE       209 

and  cover  it  with  kisses,  and  then,  through  the  win- 
dow, I  could  see  her  running  to  the  barn  and  Jonas. 

"  Now,  then,"  said  Euphemia,  closing  the  door  and 
coming  toward  me,  with  one  of  her  old  smiles,  and 
not  a  trace  of  preoccupation  about  her,  "  I  suppose 
you  expect  me  to  devote  myself  to  you." 

I  did  expect  it,  and  I  was  not  mistaken. 

Since  these  events,  a  third  baby  has  come  to  Rud- 
der Grange.  It  is  not  Pomona's,  nor  was  it  brought 
from  New  Dublin.  It  is  named  after  a  little  one,  who 
died  very  young,  before  this  story  was  begun,  and  the 
strangest  thing  about  it  is  that  never,  for  a  moment, 
does  it  seem  to  come  between  Euphemia  and  myself. 


HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

A   CHRISTMAS    GUEST* 
From  " Sonny  " 

RUTH     m'eNERY    STUART 

A  boy,  you  say,  doctor?  An'  she  don't  know  it 
yet?  Then  what're  you  telHn'  mc  for?  No,  sir — take 
it  away.  I  don't  want  to  lay  my  eyes  on  it  till  she's 
saw  it — not  if  I  am  its  father.  She's  its  mother,  I 
reckon ! 

Better  lay  it  down  somew'eres  an'  go  to  her — not 
there  on  the  rockin'-cheer,  for  somebody  to  set  on 
— 'n'  not  on  the  trunk,  please.  That  ain't  none  o'  yo' 
ord'nary  new-born  bundles,  to  be  dumped  on  a  box 
that'll  maybe  be  opened  sudden  d'rec'ly  for  somethin' 
needed,  an'  be  dropped  ag'in'  the  wall-paper  behind  it. 

Ifs  hers,  whether  she  knows  it  or  not.  Dont,  for 
gracious  sakes,  lay  'im  on  the  table!  Anybody  knows 
thafs  bad  luck. 

You  think  it  might  bother  her  on  the  bed?  She's 
that  bad?  An'  they  ain't  no  fire  kindled  in  the  settin'- 
room,  to  lay  it  in  there. 

S-i-r?  Well,  yas,  I— I  reck'n  I'll  haf  to  hold  it,  ef 
you  say  so — that  is — of  co'se 

Wait,  doctor!  Don't  let  go  of  it  yet!  Lordy!  but 
I'm  thess  shore  to  drop  it !     Lemme  set  down  first, 

*  By  permission  of  The  Century  Company.  Copyright,  1894,  1895, 
1896,  by  The  Century  Company.     Copyright,  1895,  by  The  Home  Queen. 

211 


212  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

doctor,  here  by  the  fire  an'  git  het  through.  Not  yet ! 
My  ol'  shin-bones  stan'  up  thess  like  a  pair  o'  dog- 
irons.  Lemme  bridge  'em  over  first  'th  somethin' 
soft.  That'll  do.  She  patched  that  quilt  herself. 
Hold  on  a  minute  tell  I  git  the  aidges  of  it  under 
my  ol'  boots,  to  keep  it  f'om  saggin'  down  in  the 
middle. 

There,  now  !  Merciful  goodness,  but  I  never !  I'd 
ruther  trus'  myself  with  a  whole  playin'  fountain  in 
blowed  glass  'n  sech  ez  this. 

Stoop  down  there,  doctor,  please,  sir,  an'  shove  the 
end  o'  this  quilt  a  leetle  further  under  my  foot,  won't 
you?  Ef  it  was  to  let  up  sudden,  I  wouldn't  have  no 
more  lap  'n  what  any  other  fool  man's  got. 

'N'  now — you  go  to  her. 

I'd  feel  a  heap  safeter  ef  this  quilt  was  nailed  to  the 
flo'  on  each  side  o'  my  legs.  They're  trimblin'  so  I 
dunno  what  minute  my  feet'll  let  go  their  holt. 

An'  she  don't  know  it  yet!  An'  he  layin'  here, 
dressed  up  in  all  the  little  clo'es  she  sewed !  She  mus' 
be  purty  bad.  I  dunno,  though;  maybe  that's  gen'ally 
the  way. 

They're  keepin'  mighty  still  in  that  room.  Blessed 
ef  I  don't  begin  to  feel  'is  warmth  in  my  ol'  knee- 
bones  !  An'  he's  a-breathin'  thess  ez  reg'lar  ez  that 
clock,  on'y  quicker.  Lordy !  An'  she  don't  know  it 
yet!  An'  he  a  boy!  He  taken  that  after  the  Joneses; 
we've  all  been  boys  in  our  male  branch.  When  that 
name  strikes,  seem  like  it  comes  to  stay.  Now  for 
a  girl 

Wonder  if  lie  ain't  covered  up  mos'  too  close-t. 
Seem  like  he  snufiles  j)urty  loud — for  a  beginner. 


A  CHRISTMAS   GUEST  213 

Doctor!    oh,  doctor!     I  say,  doctor! 

Strange  he  don't  hear — 'n'  I  don't  Hke  to  holler  no 
louder.  Wonder  ef  she  could  be  worse.  Ef  I  could 
thess  reach  somethin'  to  knock  with !  I  daresn't  lif 
my  foot,  less'n  the  whole  business'd  fall  through. 

Oh,  doc' ! — here  he  comes  now — doctor,  I  say,  don't 
you  think  maybe  he's  covered  up  too 

How's  sJw,  doctor?  "Thess  the  same,"  you  say; 
'n'  she  don't  know  yet — about  him?  "  In  a  couple  o' 
hours,"  you  say?  Well,  don't  lemme  keep  you,  doc- 
tor. But,  tell  me,  don't  you  think  maybe  he's  cov- 
ered up  a  leetle  too  close-t? 

That's  better.  An'  now  I've  saw  him  befo'  she  did ! 
An'  I  didn't  want  to,  neither. 

Poor  lettle,  teenchy,  weenchy  Die  ^f  a  thing!  Ef 
he  ain't  the  Z'cry  littlest !  Lordy,  Lordy,  'Lovdy!  (But 
I  s'pose  all  thet's  needed  in  a  baby  is  a  startin'-p'int  big 
enough  to  hoi'  the  fam'ly  ch'racteristics.  I  s'pose 
maybe  he  is,  but  the  po'  little  thing  mus'  feel  sort  o' 
scrouged  with  'em,  ef  he's  got  'em  all — the  Joneses' 
an'  the  Simses'.  Seem  to  me  he  favors  her  a  little 
thess  aroun'  the  mouth.) 

An'  she  don't  know  it  yet ! 

Lord !  But  my  legs  ache  like  ez  if  they  was  bein' 
wrenched  off.  I've  got  'em  on  sech  a  strain,  sonie- 
how.  An'  he  on'y  a  half  hour  ol',  an'  two  hours  mo' 
'fo'  I  can  budge  !    Lord,  Lord  !  how  7C'/7/  I  stand  it ! 

God  bless  'ini!  Doc!  He's  a-sn^ezin' !  Come 
quick!    Shore  ez  I'm  here,  he  snez  twice-t! 

Don't  you  reckon  you  better  pile  some  mo'  wood 
on  the  fire  an' 

What's  that  you  say?     "Fetch  'im  along"?     An' 


214  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

has  she  ast  for  'im?  Bless  the  Lord!  I  say.  But 
a  couple  of  you'll  have  to  come  help  me  loosen  up 
'fo'  I  can  move^  doctor. 

Here,  you  stan'  on  that  side  the  quilt,  whiles  I  move 
my  foot  to  the  flo'  where  it  won't  slip — an'  Dicey — 
where's  that  nigger  Dicey?  You  Dicey,  come  on 
here,  an'  tromp  on  the  other  side  o'  this  bedquilt  till 
I  h'ist  yo'  young  marster  up  on  to  my  shoulder. 

No,  you  don't  take  'im,  neither.  I'll  tote  'im  my- 
self. 

Now,  go  fetch  a  piller  till  I  lay  'im  on  it.  That's 
it.  And  now  git  me  somethin'  stiff  to  lay  the  piller 
on.  There!  That  lapboa'd  '11  do.  Why  didn't  I 
think  about  that  befo'?  It's  a  heap  safeter'n  my  ole 
knee-j'ints.  Now,  I've  got  'im  ^fcure.  JVait,  doctor 
— hold  on!  I'm  afeered  you'll  haf  to  ca'y  'im  in  to 
her,  after  all.  I'll  cry  ef  I  do  it.  I'm  trimblin'  like 
ez  ef  I  had  a'  ager,  thess  a-startin'  in  with  'im — an 
seein'  me  give  way  might  make  her  nervious.  You 
take  'im  to  her,  and  lemme  come  in  sort  o'  uncon- 
cerned terreckly,  after  she  an'  him  've  kind  o'  got  ac- 
quainted. Dast  you  hold  'im  that-a-way,  doctor, 
'thout  no  support  to  'is  spinal  colume?  I  s'pose  he 
is  too  sof  to  snap,  but  I  wouldn't  resk  it.  Reckon 
I  can  slip  in  the  other  do'  where  she  won't  see  me, 
an'  view  the  meetin'. 

Yas;  I'm  right  here,  honey!  (The  idea  o'  her 
a-callin'  for  me — an'  him  in  'er  arms !)  I'm  right  here, 
honey — mother!  Don't  min'  me  a-cryin' !  I'm  all 
broke  up,  somehow;  but  don't  you  fret.  I'm  right 
here  by  yo'  side  on  my  knees,  in  pure  thankfulness. 

Bless   His  name,   I   say !     You   know   he's  a  boy, 


A   CHRISTMAS   C;UEST  215 

don't  yer?  I  l)een  a  holdin'  "ini  all  day — 't  least  ever 
sence  they  dressed  'im,  purty  ni<;h  a  hour  ago.  An' 
he's  slep' — an'  waked  up — an'  yawned — an'  snez — an' 
vvunk — an'  sniffed — 'thout  me  sayin'  a  word.  Opened 
an'  shet  his  little  fist,  once-t'  like  ez  ef  he  craved  to 
shake  hands,  howdy!  He  cert'n'y  does  perform  'is 
functions  wonderful. 

Yas,  doctor;    I'm  a-comin',  right  now. 

Go  to  sleep  now,  honey,  you  an'  him,  an'  I'll  be 
right  on  the  spot  when  needed.  Lemme  whisper  to 
her  thess  a  minute,  doctor? 

I  thess  want  to  tell  you.  honey,  thet  you  never, 
even  in  yo'  young  days,  looked  ez  purty  to  my  eyes 
ez  what  you  do  right  now.  An'  that  boy  is  yo'  boy, 
an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  lay  no  mo'  claim  to  'im  'n  to  see 
thet  you  have  yo'  way  with  'im — you  hear?  An'  now 
good-night,  honey,  an'  go  to  sleep. 

They  wasn't  nothin'  Icf  for  me  to  do  but  to  come 
out  here  in  this  ol'  woodshed  where  nobody  wouldn't 
see  me  ac'  like  a  plumb  baby. 

An'  now,  seem  like  I  cani  git  over  it !  The  idee  o' 
me,  fifty  year  ol',  actin'  like  this! 

An'  she  knows  it !  An'  she's  got  'im — a  boy — layin' 
in  the  bed  'longside  'er. 

"Mother  an'  child  doin'  well!"  Lord,  Lord! 
How  often  I've  heerd  that  said !  But  it  never  give 
me  the  all-overs  like  it  does  now,  some  way. 

Guess  I'll  gether  up  a  armful  o'  wood,  an'  try  to 
act  unconcerned — an'  laws-a-mercy  me  !  Ef — to-day 
— ain't — been — Christmas !  My  !  my  !  my  !  Aji'  it 
come  an'  gone  bcfo'  I  remenibered! 


2l6  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

I'll  liaf  to  lay  this  wood  down  ag'in  a/z'  fJiink. 

I've  had  many  a  welcome  Christmas  gif  in  my  life, 
but  the  idee  o'  the  good  Lord  a-timin'  this  like  that! 

Christmas !     An'  a  boy !    An'  she  doin'  well ! 

No  wonder  that  ol'  turkey-gobbler  sets  up  on  thera 
rafters  blinkin'  at  me  so  peaceful !  He  knows  he's 
done  passed  a  critical  time  o'  life. 

You've  done  crossed  another  bridge  safe-t,  ol'  gob- 
bly,  an'  you  can  afford  to  blink — an'  to  set  out  in  the 
clair  moonlight,  'stid  o'  roostin'  back  in  the  shadders, 
same  ez  you  been  doin'. 

You  was  to've  died  by  accident  las'  night,  but  the 
new  visitor  thet's  dropped  in  on  us  ain't  cut  'is 
turkey  teeth  yet,  an'  his  mother 

Lord,  how  that  name  sounds !  Mother !  I  hardly 
know  'er  by  it,  long  ez  I  been  tryin'  to  fit  it  to  'er — 
an'  fearin'  to,  too,  less'n  somethin'  might  go  wrong 
with  either  one. 

I  even  been  callin'  him  "  it  "  to  myself  all  along, 
so  'feerd  thet  ef  I  set  my  min'  on  either  the  "  he  "  or 
the  "  she  "  the  other  one  might  take  a  notion  to 
come — an'  I  didn't  want  any  disappointment  mixed  in 
with  the  arrival. 

But  now  he's  come, — on'  registered,  ez  they  say  at 
the  polls, — I  know  I  sort  o'  counted  on  the  boy, 
some  way. 

Lordy !  but  he's  little !  Ef  he  hadn't  'a'  showed  up 
so  many  of  his  functions  spontaneous,  I'd  be  oneasy 
less'n  he  mightn't  have 'em;  but  they're  there !  Bless 
goodness,  they're  there ! 

An'  he  snez  prezac'ly,  for  all  the  world,  like  my  po' 
ol'  pap — a  reg'lar  little  cat  sneeze,  thess  like  all  the 
Jonesec 


A  CHRISTMAS    GUEST  217 

Well,  Mr.  Turkey,  befo'  I  ^o  l)ack  into  the  house, 
I'm  a-goin'  to  make  you  a  solemn  promise. 

You  go  free  till  about  this  time  next  year,  anyhoiv. 
You  an'  me'll  celebrate  the  birthday  between  our- 
selves with  that  contrac'.  You  needn't  git  oneasy 
Thanksgivin',  or  picnic-time,  or  Easter,  or  no  other 
time  'twixt  this  an'  nex'  Christmas — less'n,  of  co'se, 
you  stray  off  an'  git  stole. 

An'  this  here  reprieve,  I  want  you  to  understand, 
is  a  present  from  the  junior  member  of  this  firm. 

Lord  !  but  I'm  that  tickled  !  This  here  wood  ain't 
much  needed  in  the  house, — the  wood-boxes  're  all 
full, — but  I  can't  (/t'vise  no  other  excuse  for  vacatin' 
— thess  at  this  time. 

S'pose  I  might  gether  up  some  eggs  out'n  the 
nestes,  but  it'd  look  sort  o'  flighty  to  go  egg-huntin' 
here  at  midnight — an'  he  not  two  hours  ol'. 

I  dunno,  either,  come  to  think;  she  might  need  a 
new-laid  tgg — sof  b'iled.  Reckon  I'll  take  a  couple 
in  my  hands — an'  one  or  two  sticks  o'  wood — an'  I'll 
draw  a  bucket  o'  water  too — an'  tote  that  in. 

Goodness!  but  this  back  yard  is  bright  ez  day! 
Goin'  to  be  a  clair,  cool  night — moon  out,  full  an' 
w^hite.     Ef  this  ain't  the  stillest  stillness! 

Thess  sech  a  night,  for  all  the  world,  I  reckon,  ez 
the  first  Christmas,  when  He  come — 

When  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night, 

All  seated  on  the  ground, 
The  angel  o'  the  Lord  come  down. 

An'  glory  shone  around — 

thess  like  the  hymn  says. 

The  whole  o'  this  back  yard  is  full  o'  glory  this 


2l8  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

minute.  Th'  ain't  nothin'  too  low  down  an'  mean  for 
it  to  shine  on,  neither — not  even  the  well-pump  or 
the  cattle-trough — 'r  the  pig-pen — or  even  me. 

Thess  look  at  me,  covered  over  with  it !  An'  how 
it  does  shine  on  the  roof  o'  the  house  where  they  lay 
— her  an'  him! 

I  suppose  that  roof  has  shined  that-a-way  frosty 
nights  'fo'  to-night;  but  some  way  I  never  seemed 
to  see  it. 

Don't  reckon  the  creakin'  o'  this  windlass  could  dis- 
turb her — or  him. 

Reckon  I  might  go  turn  a  little  mo'  cotton-seed  in 
the  troughs  for  them  cows — an'  put  some  extry  oat.' 
out  for  the  mules  an'  the  doctor's  mare — an'  onchair 
Rover,  an'  let  'im  stretch  'is  legs  a  little.  I'd  Hke  every- 
thing on  the  place  to  know  lie's  come,  an'  to  feel  thf 
diff'ence. 

Well,  now  I'll  load  up — an'  I  do  hope  nobody 
won't  notice  the  rt^dic'lousness  of  it. 

You  say  she's  asleep,  doctor,  an'  th'  ain't  nothin' 
mo'  needed  to  be  did — an'  yo'  're  goin' ! 

Don't,  for  gracious  sakes !  go,  doctor,  an'  leave  me ! 
I  won't  know  what  on  top  o'  the  round  earth  to  do, 
ef — ef — •  You  know  she — she  might  wake  up — or 
he! 

You  say  Dicey  she  knows.     But  she's  on'y  a  nig 
ger,  doctor.     Yes;    I  know  she's  had  exper'ence  with 
the  common  run  o'  babies,  but 

Lemme  go  an'  set  down  this  bucket,  an'  lay  this 
stick  o'  wood  on  the  fire,  an'  put  these  eggs  down,  so's 
I  can  talk  to  you  free-handed. 


A   CHRISTMAS   GUEST  ^IQ 

Step  here  to  the  do',  doctor.  I  say,  doc,  ef  it's  a 
question  o'  the  size  o'  yo'  bill,  you  can  make  it  out 
to  suit  yo'self— or,  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  You 
stay  right  along  here  a  day  or  so — tell  to-morrer 
or  nex'  day,  anyhow — an'  I'll  sen'  you  a  whole  bale 
o'  -cotton— an'  you  can  sen'  back  any  change  you 
see  fit — or  none — or  none,  I  say.  Or,  ef  you'd  ruther 
take  it  out  in  pertaters  an'  corn  an'  sorghum,  thess 
say  so,  an'  how  much  of  each. 

But  ivhat?  "  It  wouldn't  be  right?  Th'ain't  no 
use,"  you  say?  An'  you'll  shore  come  back  to-morrer? 
Well.  But,  by  the  way,  doctor,  did  you  know  to-day 
was  Christmas?  Of  co'se  I  might' ve  knew  you  did— 
but  /  never.  An'  now  it  seems  to  me  like  Christmas, 
an'  Fo'th  o'  July,  an'  "  Hail  Columbia,  happy  Ian'," 
all  b'iled  down  into  one  big  jubilee ! 

But  tell  me,  doctor,  confidential — sh ! — step  here  a 
leetle  further  l)ack — tell  me,  don't  you  think  he's  to 
say  a  leetle  bit  undersized?     Speak  out,  ef  he  is. 

Wh — how'd  you  say?  "  Mejum,"  eh?  Thess  me- 
jum!  An'  they  do  come  even  littler  yet?  An'  you 
say  mejum  babies  're  thess  ez  liable  to  turn  out  likely 
an'  strong  ez  over-sizes,  eh?  Mh-hni !  Well,  I  reckon 
you  knoiv — an'  maybe  the  less  they  have  to  contend 
with  at  the  start  the  better. 

Oh,  thanky,  doctor!  Don't  be  afeered  o'  wrenchin' 
my  wris' !  A  thousand  thankies !  Yo'  word  for  it. 
he's  a  fine  boy!  An'  you've  inspected  a  good  many, 
an'  of  co'se  you  know — yas,  yas!  Shake  ez  hard  ez 
you  like — up  an'  down — up  an'  down  ! 

An'  now  I'll  go  git  yo'  horse — an'  don't  ride  'er 
too  hard  to-night,  'cause  I've  put  a  double  po'tion  of 


220  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

oats  in  her  trough  awhile  ago.  The  junior  member 
he  give  instructions  that  everything  on  the  place  was 
to  have  a'  extry  feed  to-night — an'  of  co'se  I  went 
and  obeyed  orders. 

Now — 'fo'  you  start,  doctor — I  ain't  got  a  thing 
stronger'n  raspberry  corjal  in  the  house — but  ef  you'll 
drink  a  glass  o'  that  with  me?    (Of  co'se  he  will !) 

She  made  this  'erself,  doctor — picked  the  berries  an' 
all — an'  I  raised  the  little  sugar  thet's  in  it.  Well, 
good-night,  doctor!    To-morrer,  shore! 

Sh-h! 

How  that  do'-Iatch  does  click !    Thess  like  thunder ! 

Sh-h !  Dicey,  you  go  draw  yo'  pallet  close-t  out- 
side the  do',  an'  lay  down — an'  I'll  set  here  by  the 
fire  an'  keep  watch. 

How  my  ol'  stockin'-feet  do  tromp !  Do  lemme 
hurry  an'  set  down !  Seem  like  this  room's  awful 
rackety,  the  fire  a-poppin'  an'  tumblin',  an'  me  breath- 
in'  like  a  porpoise.  Even  the  clock  ticks  ez  excited 
ez  I  feel.  Wonder  how  they  sleep  through  it  all! 
But  they  do.  He  beats  her  a-snorin'  a'ready,  blest  ef 
he  don't!  Wonder  ef  he  knows  he's  born  into  the 
world,  po'  little  thing!  I  reckon  not;  but  they's  no 
tellin'.  Maybe  that's  the  one  thing  the  good  Lord 
gives  'em  to  know,  so's  they'll  realize  what  to  begin 
to  study  about — theirselves  an'  the  world — how  to 
fight  it  an'  keep  friends  with  it  at  the  same  time.  Ef 
I  could  giggle  an'  sigh  both  at  once-t,  seem  like  I'd 
be  relieved.  Somehow  I  feel  sort  o'  tight  'roun'  the 
heart — an'  wide  awake  an' • 

How  the  clock  does  travel — an'  how  they  all  keep 


A   CHRISTMAS   GUEST  221 

time,  he — an'  slie — an'  it — an'  mc — an'  the  fire  roa'in' 
up  the  chimbley,  playin'  a  tune  all  around  us  like  a' 
organ,    an'    he — an'    she — an'    he — an'    it — an'    he — 

an' 

Blest  ef  I  don't  liear  singing — an'  how  white  the 
moonlight  is !  They's  angels  all  over  the  house — an' 
their  robes  is  breshin'  the  roof  whiles  they  sing 


His  head  had  fallen.     He  was  dreaming. 


THE   RETURN    OF   THE   HOE 

{Drake's  Magaj^iue) 

*'  Goliath  Johnsing,  why  you  so  late?  Supper  been 
a  spilin'  on  de  stove  dis  half  hour,"  and  Aunt  Lucy 
faced  her  liege  lord  with  stern  dignity. 

"  Old  Daddy  Moses  an'  me  been  a  havin'  it  out." 

"  Havin'  what  out?  You  ain't  been  an'  had  a  fuss 
wid  Mr.  Benson,  'Liah  Johnsing?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have.  Ole  Skincher.  Here  I  have  been 
a  hoein'  hard  in  the  fiel'  all  day,  and  he  mean 
enough  to  dock  my  w^ages  ten  cents  'cause  warn't  back 
at  noon  jest  at  de  minnit.  I  warn't  late  more'n  half 
an  hour  or  three-quarters  of  an  hour.  But  I  give  him 
piece  of  my  mind." 

"  I  s'pose  he  don'  want  to  pay  for  work  he  don'  git." 

"  Don'  git?  Why,  thar  was  Sam  Stevens  an'  Bill 
Jenkins;  they  talk  more'n  half  de  time,  an'  rested  on 
they  handles  more'n  t'other  half,  an'  did  he  dock 
them  any?  Not  he.  He  got  spite  'gin  me,  I  know 
dat." 

"  Whar'd  you  git  dat  new  hoe? "  queried  Aunt 
Lucy,  as  'Liah  hung  that  implement  up  in  the  wood- 
shed. 

"  Neber  you  mind.  Women  always  want  stick  their 
nose  into  ebberyting." 

"  An'  what  you  done  wid  your  ole  hoe  you  took 
away  this  noon?  You  didn't  trade  that  off  for  a  new 
one?" 

222 


THE   RETURN   OF  THE   HOE  22} 

"  Yes,  I  (lid.  'f  ye  will  know." 

"  'Liah  Johnsing,"  blurted  out  Aunt  Lucy,  as  a 
sudden  suspicion  flamed  in  her  eyes,  "  dat  ain't  one  of 
Moses  Benson's  hoes?  You  ain't  gone  and  changed 
off  yo'  ole  hoe  for  one  his'n,  I  hope.  You  wouldn't 
do  dat,  if  he  is  a  skincher,  an'  you  a  member  de  church, 
'Liah  Johnsing?  " 

''  Miss  Johnsing,  you  jes'  ten'  to  yo'  own  bus'ness. 
Don'  you  let  me  hear  not  one  mo'  word  'bout  dat 
hoe." 

Suddenly,  as  bedtime  drew  near,  'Liah  rose  and 
went  into  the  house,  saying  as  he  went: 

"  Got  to  go  dowai  to  de  sto',  Lucy.  I  forgot  I 
got  to  mow  Dawkinses  fiel'  to-morrow,  an'  my  whet- 
stun's  clear  down  to  de  bone,  an'  Fve  got  to  start 
of¥  to-morrow  'fore  sto's  oi)en." 

'Liah  had  been  gone  hardly  a  minute,  when  Aunt 
Lucy  called  in  a  tragic  whisper  to  Paul,  her  oldest 
boy,  six  years  of  age. 

"  You  Paul,  come  here  quick,  by  you'self." 

Paul,  used  to  obeying,  came  promptly,  and  was 
drawn  close  up  to  his  mother  on  the  settee.  "  Now, 
you  Paul,  I  wonder  kin  I  trust  you  to  do  something 
for  me?" 

Paul,  somewhat  disturbed,  kept  discreetly  silent. 

"  I  wish  you's  a  little  bigger,  but  de  Lord  will  hoi' 
you  up.  Paul,  you  listen,  ^^1^en  you'  paw  comes 
home  from  the  sto'  an'  we's  all  gone  to  bed  and  got 
to  sleep — you  hearin',  Paul?  " 

"  Yes'm." 

"  You  get  up  still's  a  mouse,  an*  you  go  git  dat 
hoe  yo'  paw  brought  home,  an'  don't  you  make  no 


224  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

noise  takin'  it  down,  an'  you  kerry  dat  hoe  ober  .u 
Mr.  Benson's;  an'  you  take  de  hoe  what's  hangin'  dar 
■ — dat's  our  hoe,  Paul,  dat  yo'  paw  left  dar  by  'stake 
— you  take  dat  hoe  an'  bring  it  in  the  wood-shed,  an' 
don'  you  nebber  tell  you'  paw  nothin'  'bout  it." 

The  first  sun  rays  were  shining  in  at  the  window 
through  the  morning-glories,  the  early  breakfast  was 
smoking  on  the  table,  the  six  young  Johnsons  were 
struggling  down  in  various  stages  of  sleepiness,  Aunt 
Lucy  was  bending  over  the  stove  and  'Liah  washing 
at  the  sink,  when  a  loud  knock  was  heard  at  the 
kitchen  door,  which,  being  open,  disclosed  Mr.  Ben- 
son. By  his  side  stood  the  village  constable.  In  his 
hand  was  an  old  and  much  battered  hoe.  'Liah  saw 
the  hoe  and  his  upper  taw  fell.  Aunt  Lucy's  gaze  also 
was  riveted  on  it. 

"  Goliah  Johnson,"  said  the  constable,  "  you're  my 
prisoner.     You  stole  Mr.  Benson's  hoe." 

"  'Fore  de  Lord,  Mr.  Benson,  I  ain't  got  you'  hoe. 
What  you  doin'  wid  mine?  " 

"  You  needn't  pretend  that  you  left  your  old  hoe 
in  my  barn  yesterday  by  mistake,  'Liah  Johnson," 
burst  in  Mr.  Benson,  "  as  if  you  couldn't  tell  this  old 
thing  from  my  hoe.  What  have  you  got  to  say  for 
yourself?  " 

"  You  may  search  dis  place,  Mr.  Benson,  from  top 
to  bottom  an'  side  to  side,  an'  you  won't  find  no  stiver 
of  yo'  old  hoe.  How  you  got  mine  I  'clare  I  give  up, 
but  you  kin  see  for  yourself.  Now,  here's  where  I 
keeps  my  hoe,"  and  'Liah  swung  open  the  wood-shed 
door. 

There  hung  Mr.  Benson's  new  hoe. 


THE    RETURN    OF   THE    HOE  22$ 

"  Yon  Paul !  "  fairly  shouted  Aunt  Lucy,  pouncing 
on  her  young-  hopeful,  "  what  did  you  do  las'  night?  " 

"  Did  jist  what  you  tol'  me.  Took  back  dat  hoe 
an'  changed  it  for  de  one  in  Air.  Benson's  barn." 

"  Took  back  what  hoe?  "  shouted  'Liah  in  his  turn. 
"  Lucy  Johnsing,  what  you  been  stickin'  yo'  fingers 
in?" 

"  WeW,  'Liah,  I  'lowed  I  warn't  gwine  to  have  no 
hoe  in  dis  house  what  didn't  b'long  to  us  by  rights, 
'n'  so  I  tol'  Paul  to  get  up  las'  night  an'  change  de 
hoes  back  ag'in,  an'  if  he  did  it,  how  dis  one  comes 
heah  beats  me." 

"  You  Lucy  Johnsing,  see  what  you's  been  an'  done 
wid  you'  meddlin',  I  took  back  dat  hoe  'fore  I  went 
to  bed,  when  I  made  's  though  I  was  gettin'  de  whet- 
stun,  an'  then  you  went  and  changed  'em  back  ag'in." 

"  'Liah  Johnsing,  why  you  keep  secrets  from  you' 
wedded  wife?    Why  didn't  you  tell  me  'bout  dat?  " 

By  this  time  Mr.  Benson  saw  that  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  the  matter  than  he  had  supposed,  and 
sending  away  the  constable  he  got  from  the  worthy 
couple,  with  much  circumlocution,  the  story  of  the 
night's  mistakes.  Being  a  man  with  some  sense  of 
humor,  he  was  quite  mollified  by  the  comicalities  of 
the  situation,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  take  break- 
fast with  the  Johnsons. 

"  An'  after  dis,  'Liah  Johnsing,"  was  Aunt  Lucy's 
moral,  "  you'd  better  think  twice  'fore  you  keep  any 
mo'  secrets  from  you'  lawful  wedded  wife !  " 


HOW  JINNY   EASED   HER  MIND* 

THOMAS    NELSON    PAGE 

Uncle  Ben  Williamson  was  as  well  known  in  town 
as  the  mayor  or  the  governor.  He  was  an  "  old-time 
darky,"  and  to  this  character  owed  his  position,  which 
was  a  good  one.  He  had  been  "  Boy  "  about  law- 
offices  in  the  Law  Building  ever  since  the  first  even- 
ing some  years  before  when  he  had  knocked  gently 
at  Judge  Allen's  door,  and  then,  after  a  tardy  invita- 
tion, had  slipped  slowly  in  sideways,  with  his  old  beaver 
hat  in  his  hand,  and,  having  taken  in  in  his  compre- 
hensive glance  the  whole  room,  including  the  Judge 
himself,  had  said,  apparently  satisfied,  that  he  had  heard 
they  wanted  a  boy,  and  he  wanted  a  place.  It  was 
an  auspicious  moment  for  the  old  fellow;  the  last 
"  boy,"  a  drunkard  and  a  thief,  had  just  been  dis- 
charged, and  the  judge  had  been  much  worried  that 
day  trying  to  wait  on  himself.  His  thoughts  had 
turned  in  the  waning  evening  light  to  his  home,  from 
which  the  light  had  faded  for  all  time,  and  his  heart 
was  softened.  The  old  lawyer  had  looked  Ben  over 
too,  and  been  satisfied.  Something  about  him  had 
called  up  tender  recollections  of  his  little  office  at  the 
old  Court-house  before  he  became  a  successful  lawyer 
and  a  celebrated  judge,  and  when  his  best  friend  was 
♦.he  old  drunken  negro  who  waited  on  him,  "  cleaned 

*  See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  552. 
226 


HOW   JINNY    EASED    HER    MIND  227 

up  "  (?)  bis  room,  and  was  his  principal  client  and  most 
sympathetic  friend  and  counsellor  in  his  long  love- 
affair  with  his  sweetheart,  the  old  colonel's  brown- 
eyed  daughter.  He  had  just  been  dreaming  of  her, 
first  as  she  wore  his  first  violets,  and  then  as  she  lay 
for  the  last  time,  with  her  head  pillowed  in  his  roses, 
and  her  white,  slender  hands,  whiter  than  ever,  clasped 
over  his  last  violets  on  her  quiet  breast. 

He  had  recalled  all  the  sweet  dif^culties  in  winning 
her;  his  falling  l)ack  into  dissipation,  his  picking  him- 
self up  again,  and  again  his  failure;  and  then  the 
lonely  evening  when  he  had  sat  in  front  of  the  dying 
fire,  sad,  despairing,  and  had  wondered  if  life  were 
worth  holding  longer;  then  old  William  slipping  in, 
hat  in  hand.  He  recalled  the  old  man's  keen  look 
at  him  as  he  sat  before  the  fiie  with  the  pistol  half 
hidden  under  the  papers  on  his  desk,  and  his  sudden 
breaking  of  the  silence  with  :  "  Don't  you  give  her  up, 
Marse  Johnny;  don't  you  nuver  give  her  up.  Ef 
she's  wuth  havin',  she's  wuth  fightin'  for;  an'  ef  she 
say  No,  she  jes  beginnin'  to  mean  Yes.  Don't  you 
give  her  up."  And  he  had  not  given  her  up,  and  she 
had  called  him  from  the  dead  and  had  made  him.  He 
would  not  have  given  the  right  to  put  those  violets 
in  her  calm  hands  for  a  long  life  of  unbroken  happi- 
ness with  anyone  else.  So,  when  the  door  opened 
quietly,  and  Uncle  Ben,  in  his  clean  shirt,  time- 
browned  coat,  and  patched  breeches,  slipped  in,  it  was 
an  auspicious  nu^nent  for  him. 

"  Where  did  you  come  from?  "  he  asked  him. 

"  From  old  Charlotte,  suh;  used  to  'longst  to  de 
Bruces." 


22S  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

"  Can  you  clean  up?  " 

He  laughed  a  spontaneous,  jolly  laugh. 

"  Kin  I  clean  up?  Dat's  what  I  come  to  do.  Jinny 
ken,  too." 

"  Can  you  read?  " 

"  Well,  nor,  suh,  not  edzactly.  I  ain't  no  free-issue 
nigger  ner  preacher."  The  shade  of  disappointment 
on  his  face  counterbalanced  this,  however. 

"  Do  you  get  drunk?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  sometimes." — Cheerfully.  "  Not  so  often. 
I  ain't  got  nvittin'  to  git  de  whiskey.  But  ef  I's  drunk, 
Jinny  cleans  up." 

"Who  is  Jinny?" 

"  She's  my  wife." 

"  What  sort  of  a  woman  is  she?  " 

"  She's  a  black  woman.  Oh ! — she's  a  good  sort  o* 
ooman — a  toler'ble  good  sort  o'  ooman,  ef  you  know 
how  to  git  'long  wid  her.  Sort  o'  raspy  sometimes, 
like  urr  wimmens,  but  I  kin  manage  her.  You  kin 
try  us.  Ef  you  don't  like  us  we  ken  go.  We  ain't 
got  no  root  to  we  foots." 

"  You'll  do.  I'll  try  you,"  said  the  judge;  and  from 
that  time  Uncle  Ben  became  the  custodian  of  the 
ofifices.  He  was  a  treasure.  As  he  had  truly  said,  he 
pfot  drunk  sometimes,  but  when  he  did.  Jinny  took 
his  place  and  cleaned  up.  Her  temper  was,  as  he  had 
said,  certainly  "  raspy."  Even  flattery  must  have  ad- 
mitted this,  and  Uncle  Ben  wore  a  bandage  or  plaster 
on  some  part  of  his  head  a  considerable  part  of  his 
time;  but  no  one  ever  heard  him  complain.  "Jinny 
jjes  been  kind  o'  easin'  her  mine,"  he  said,  in  answer 
to  questions. 


now   JINNY    EASED    HER    MIND  229 

At  length  it  culminated:  one  night  Jimiy  went  to 
work  on  him  with  a  llat-iron  to  such  good  purpose 
that  first  a  policeman  came  in,  and  then  a  doctor  had 
to  be  called  to  bring  him  to,  and  Jinny  was  arrested. 

Next  morning,  when  Jinny  was  sent  on  to  the  grand 
jury  for  striking  with  intent  to  maim,  disfigure,  dis- 
able, and  kill,  Ben  was  a  trifle  triumphant.  When  the 
justice  announced  his  decision,  he  rose,  and  shaking 
his  long  finger  at  her,  exclaimed,  "  Aye,  aye,  what  I 
tell  you?  " 

"  Silence !  "  roared  the  big  tipstaff,  and  Ben  sat 
down  with  a  puzzled  look  on  his  face. 

When  the  police  court  closed  he  went  up  to  his  wife, 
and  said,  in  a  commanding  tone :  "  Now  come  'long 
home  wid  me  an'  'have  yourself.  I'll  teach  you  to 
sling  flat-iron  at  folks'  head !  " 

The  officer  announced,  however,  that  Jinny  would 
have  to  go  to  jail — the  case  had  passed  beyond  his 
jurisdiction.  She  had  been  "  sent  on  to  the  grand 
jury." 

Ben's  countenance  fell.  "  Got  to  go  to  jail !  "  he 
repeated,  mechanically,  in  a  dazed  kind  of  way.  "  Got 
to  go  to  jail !  " 

Then  the  prisoners  were  taken  down  to  the  jail.  He 
followed  behind  the  line  of  stragglers  that  generally 
attended  that  interesting  procession,  and  he  sat  on  a 
stone  outside  the  iron  door  nearly  all  day. 

That  afternoon  he  spent  in  the  judge's  office.  The 
grand  jurv  was  in  session,  and  next  day  "  a  true  bill  " 
was  found  against  Jinny  Williamson  for  an  attempt 
to  maim,  disfigure,  disable,  and  kill — a  felony.  The 
same  day  her  case  was  called,  the  first  on  the  docket. 


330  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

She  had  good  counsel.  She  could  have  had  ever}! 
?awyer  in  the  building  had  she  wanted  them,  so  effi- 
ciently had  old  Ben  polled  the  bar.  But  the  case  was 
a  dead  open-and-shut  one.  Unhappily,  the  judge  was 
ill  with  gout.  The  Commonwealth  called  Ben,  first 
man,  and  he  told  simply  the  same  story  he  had  told 
at  the  police  court  and  to  the  grand  jury.  Jinny  had 
always  had  a  vicious  temper,  and  had  often  exercised 
it  toward  him.  That  evening  she  had  gone  rather  far, 
and  finally  he  had  attempted  to  remonstrate  with  her, 
had  "  tapped  her  with  his  open  Land,"  and  she  had 
pounded  his  head  with  the  flat-iron.  The  officer  was 
called,  and  corroborated  the  story.  He  had  heard  the 
noise;  had  gone  in  and  found  Ben  unconscious,  and 
the  woman  in  a  fury,  swearing  to  kill  him.  The  sur- 
geon pronounced  the  wound  one  which  came  near 
being  very  serious;  but  for  Ben's  exceptionally  hard 
head,  the  skull  would  have  been  fractured;  as  it  was, 
only  the  outer  plate  of  the  frontal  bone  was  broken. 
He  had  known  several  men  killed  by  blows  much  less 
vigorous.  No  cross-examination  affected  the  wit- 
nesses. Ben  had  evidently  told  his  story  unwillingly. 
The  jury  was  solemn.  Earnest  if  short  speeches  were 
made.  The  judge  gave  a  strong  instruction  upon  the 
evil  of  women  being  lawless  and  murderous,  and  the 
jury  retired.  The  counsel  leaned  over  and  told  Ben  he 
thought  they  had  lost  the  case,  and  the  jury  would 
probably  send  his  wife  up  for  at  least  a  year.  Ben 
said  nothing.  He  only  looked  once  at  Jinny  sittinj^ 
sullen  and  lowering  in  the  prisoners'  box  beside  a  thief. 
Then,  after  a  while,  he  got  up  and  went  out,  and  a 
minute  later  slipped  in  again  at  the  door  sideways, 


now   JIXXY    EASED    HER   MIND  23 1 

and  making-  his  way  uver  to  her,  put  an  orange — not 
a  very  large  or  fresh  one — into  her  lap.  She  tlitl  not 
look  at  him. 

The  appearance  of  the  jury  tiling  in  glum  and  im- 
portant sent  him  to  his  seat.  The  clerk  called  the 
names  and  asked:  "  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  have  you 
agreed  on  a  verdict?"  The  consumptive-looking 
foreman  bowed,  and  handed  in  the  indictment,  amid  a 
sudden  silence,  and  the  clerk  read,  slowly :  "  We,  the 
jury,  find  the  prisoner  guilty/'  etc.,  "  and  sentence  her 
to  confinement  in  the  penitentiary  for  two  years." 
Neither  Jinny  nor  Ben  stirred,  nor  did  the  counsel. 
He  was  c\idently  considering.  The  judge,  in  a  voice 
slightly  troul)led,  said  he  would  pronounce  sentence 
at  once,  and  asked  the  prisoner  if  she  had  anything  she 
wished  to  say.  She  rocked  a  little  and  glanced  shyly 
over  toward  Ben  with  a  sort  of  appealing  look — her 
first — ;  said  nothing,  looked  down  again,  and  turned 
her  orange  over  in  her  lap. 

"  Stand  up,"  said  the  judge;   and  she  stood  up. 

Just  then  Ben  stood  up  too,  and  making  his  wav 
over  to  her,  said:    "  Jedge,  ken  I  say  a  wud?  " 

''  Why — ah — yes,"  said  the  judge,  doubtfully.  ''  Tt 
is  very  unusual,  but  go  on."  He  sat  back  in  his  arm- 
chair. 

"  Well,  gent'mens,"  began  Ben,  "  I  jes  wants  to 
say  "  (he  paused,  and  took  in  the  entire  court-room 
in  the  sweep  of  his  glance) — "  I  jes  wants  to  say  dat 
I  don't  think  you  ought  to  do  Jinnv  dat  a-way.  Y'all 
'ain'  got  niUtin'  't  all  'ginst  Jinny.  She  'ain'  do  nut- 
tin'  to  you  all — nuttin'  't  all.  She's  my  wife,  an'  what 
she  done  she  done  to  me.    Ef  I  kin  stan'  it,  y'all  ought 


232  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

to  be  able  to,  dat's  sho'.  Now  hit's  dis  a-way.  Y'all 
is  married  gent'mens,  an'  yo'  knows  jes  how  'tis.  Yo' 
knows  sometimes  a  ooman  gits  de  debil  in  her.  'Tain't 
her  fault;  'tis  de  debil's.  Hit  jes  like  wolf  in  cows. 
Sometimes  dee  gits  in  de  skin  an  mecks  'em  kick  np 
an'  run  an'  mean.  Dat's  de  way  'tis  wid  wimmens.  I 
done  know  Jinny  ever  sence  she  wuz  a  little  gal  at 
home  in  de  country.  I  done  know  how  mean  she  is. 
I  done  know  all  dat,  an'  I  done  marry  her,  'cuz  she 
suit  me.  I  had  plenty  o'  urr  gals  I  could  'a'  marry, 
but  I  ain'  want  dem.  I  want  Jinny,  an'  I  pester  her  tell 
she  had  me.  Well,  she  meaner  eben  'n  I  think  she  is; 
but  dat  ain'  nuttin' :  I  satisfied  wid  her,  an'  dat's 
'nough.  Y'all  don'  know  how  mean  she  is.  She  mean 
as  a  narrer-faced  mule.  She  kick  an'  she  fight  an'  she 
quoil  tell  sometimes  I  hardly  ken  stay  in  muh  house; 
but  dat  ain'  nuttin'.  I  stay  dyah,  an'  when  she  git 
thoo  I  right  dyah  jes  same  as  befo',  an'  I  know  den  I 
gwine  have  a  good  supper,  an'  I  ain'  got  to  pester 
my  mine  'bout  nuttin'.  Y'all  done  been  all  'long 
dyah,  'cuz  y'all  is  married  gent'mens.  Well,  dat's  de 
way  'twuz  turr  night.  Jinny  been  good  so  long,  I 
feared  she  got  some'n  de  matter  wid  her,  an'  I  kind 
o'  git  oneasy,  an'  sort  o'  poke  her  up.  But  she  ain't; 
she  all  right.  I  so  glad  to  find  her  dat  way,  I  sort  o' 
uppish,  an'  when  she  hit  me  I  slapped  her.  I  didn' 
mean  to  hu't  her;  I  jes  hit  her  a  little  tap  side  her 
head,  so,  an'  she  went  all  to  pieces  in  a  minute.  I  done 
hurt  her  feelin's.  Y'all  know  how  'tis  yo'self.  Wim- 
men's  got  might  cu'ious  feelin's,  ain'  like  chillern's 
nor  men's.  Ef  you  slap  'em,  dey  goes  dat  a-way. 
Dey  gits  aggervated,  an'  den  dey  got  to  ease  dee  mine. 


now  jixNV  EAs?:n  her  mind  233 

Well,  Jinny  she  got  mighty  big  mine,  an'  when  she  dat 
a-way  it  tecks  right  smart  to  ease  it — to  smoove  it. 
Fust  she  done  try  broom,  den  cheer,  den  shovel,  den 
skillet;  but  ain'  none  o'  dem  able  to  ease  her,  an'  den 
she  got  to  try  de  ilat-iron.  She  got  to  do  it.  Y'all 
knows  how  'tis.  Ef  wimmen's  got  to  do  anything  dey 
got  to  do  it.  an'  dat's  all.  Flat-iron  don'  hn't  none.  I 
'ain'  eben  feel  it.  Hit  jcs  knock  me  out  niuh  head 
little  while,  an'  I  jes  good  as  1  wuz  befo'.  When  I 
come  to  I  fine  dee  done  'rest  Jinny.  Dat's  what  hu't 
me.  Jinny  done  been  easin'  her  mine  all  dese  years, 
an'  we  'ain'  nuver  had  no  trouble  befo'.  An'  now  y'all 
say  she  got  to  go  to  de  pen'tentia'y.  How'd  y'all  like 
somebody  to  sen'  you'  wife  to  pen'tentia'y  when  she 
jes  easin'  her  mine?  I  ax  you  dat.  How  she  gwine 
ease  her  mine  dyah?  I  ax  you  dat.  I  know  y'all  gwine 
sen'  her  dyah,  gent'mens,  'cuz  you  done  say  you  is. 
1  know  you  is,  an'  I  'ain'  got  nuttin  to  say  'bout  it,  not 
a  wud;  but  all  I  ax  you  is  to  le'  me  go  dyah  too.  I 
don'  want  stay  here  b'dout  Jinny,  an'  y'all  ain'  gwine 
to  know  how  to  manage  her  b'dout  me.  I  is  de  on'iest 
one  kin  do  dat.  Jinny  got  six  chillern — little  chillern 
— dis  las'  crap;  she  didn'  hab  none  some  sevrul  years, 
an'  den  she  had  six.  I  gwine  bring  'em  all  right  up 
heah  to  y'all  to  teck  keer  on,  'cuz  I  gwine  wid  her — ef 
you  le'  me.  I  kyarn  stan'  it  dyah  by  myself.  I  leetle 
mo'  went  'stracted  last  night.  Y'all  kin  have  'em,  'cuz 
y'all  ken  teck  keer  on  'em,  an'  I  kyan't.  I  would  jes 
like  you  to  let  her  go  home  for  a  leetle  while  'fo'  yo' 
sen'  her  up,  I  jes  would  like  dat.  She  got  a  right  new 
baby  dyah  squealin'  for  her  dis  minute,  an'  I  mighty 
feared  hit  gwine  to  die  widout  her,  an'  dat'll  be  right 


234  HUMOROUS  DIALECT 

hard  'pon  Jinny.  She  'ain'  never  fos'  buf  byah  one,  an' 
I  had  right  smart  trouble  wid  her  'bout  dat.-  She  sort 
o'  out  her  head  arter  dat  some  sevrul  months,  till  she 
got  straight  agin.  I  git  'long  toler'ble  well  wid  de 
urr  chillerns,  but  I  ain'  able  to  nuss  dat  new  one,  an' 
she  squeal  all  night.  I  got  a  ooman  to  come  dyah 
an'  look  arter  it,  but  she  say  she  want  Jinny,  an'  I  think 
Jinny  want  her — I  think  she  do.  Jes  let  her  go  dyah 
a  little  while.    Dat's  all  I  want  to  ax  you." 

He  sat  down. 

A  glance  at  Jinny  proved  his  assertion.  Her  eyes 
were  shut  fast,  and  with  her  arms  tightly  folded  across 
her  ample  bosom,  she  was  rocking  gently  from  side 
to  side.  Two  tears  had  pushed  out  from  under  her 
eyes,  and  stood  gleaming  on  her  black  cheeks. 

The  ':ounsel  glanced  up  at  the  judge,  whose  face 
wore  a  look  of  deep  perplexity,  and  then  at  the  jury. 
"  I  would  like  to  poll  the  jury,"  he  said. 

The  clerk  read  the  verdict  over,  and  called  the  first 
name.     "  Is  that  your  verdict?  " 

The  juror  arose.  "  Well,  judge,  I  thought  it  was; 
but  "  (he  looked  down  at  his  fellows)  "  I  think  if  I 
could  I  would  like  to  talk  to  one  or  two  of  the  other 
jurors  a  minute,  if  it  is  not  too  late.  My  wife's  got 
a  right  new  baby  at  home  herself  that  squealed  a  lit- 
tle last  night,  and  I'd  like  to  go  back  to  the  room 
and  think  a1)out  it." 

"  Sheriff,  take  the  jury  back  to  +heir  room,"  said 
the  judge,  firmly. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  returned,  and  the  verdict  was 
read : 

"  We,  the  jury,  all  married  men,  find  the  prisoner 
guilty  of  only  easing,  her  mind." 


SAUNDERS  McGLASHAN'S   COURTSHIP 

DAVID     KENNEDY 

Saunders  McGlashan  was  a  handloom-weaver  in  a 
rural  part  of  Scotland,  many  years  ago.  Like  many 
another  Scotsman,  he  was  strongly  possessed  with  the 
desire  to  own  the  house  he  lived  in.  He  bought  it, 
before  he  had  saved  money  enough  to  pay  for  it,  and 
he  toiled  day  and  night  to  clear  the  debt,  but  died  in 
the  struggle.  He  bequeathed  the  debt  and  his  blessing 
to  his  wife  and  bairns.  When  he  was  dying,  he  called 
his  son  to  the  bedside  and  said :  "  Saunders,  ye're  the 
eldest  son,  and  ye  maun  be  a  faither  to  the  ither  bairns, 
see  that  they  a'  learn  to  read  their  Bibles  and  to  write 
their  names,  and  be  gude  to  your  mither;  and,  Saun- 
ders, promise  me  that  ye'll  see  that  the  debt  is  paid." 
The  son  promised,  and  the  father  died  and  was  buried 
in  the  auld  kirkyard. 

Years  passed — the  bairns  were  all  married  and  away, 
and  Saunders  was  left  alone  wath  his  mother.  She  grew 
frail  and  old,  and  he  nursed  her  with  tender,  conscious 
care.  On  the  evening  of  the  longest  summer  day  the 
mother  lay  dying.  Saunders  sat  at  her  bedside,  and 
they  opened  their  hearts  to  each  other  on  the  grandest 
themes.  Stretching  her  skinny  hand  out  of  the  bed- 
clothes, she  laid  it  on  Saunders's  head,  now  turning 
gray,  and  said :    "  Saunders,  ye've  been  a  gude  laddie, 

235 


23f  HUMOROUS  DIALECT 

and  I'm  gaun  to  leave  ye.  I  bless  ye,  and  Heaven  will 
bless  you;  for  ye  have  dune  Heaven's  biddin',  and  hon- 
ored your  faither  and  mither.  I'll  see  your  faither  the 
morn,  and  I'll  tell  him  that  the  bairns  are  a'  weel,  and 
that  the  debt  was  paid  lang  or  I  left  the  earth."  She 
died,  and  he  laid  her  in  the  kirkyard  beside  his  father, 
and  returned  to  the  house  he  was  born  in — alone.  He 
sat  down  in  his  father's  chair  crowned  with  the  price- 
less crown  of  a  deserved  blessing,  but  there  was  no 
voice  to  welcome  him. 

"  What'll  I  dae,"  he  said.  "  I  think  I'll  just  keep  the 
hoose  mysel'."  This  was  easily  done,  for  he  lived  very 
simply — parritch  or  brose  to  breakfast,  tatties  and 
herrin'  to  dinner,  and  brose  or  parritch  again  to  supper. 
But  when  winter  set  in,  his  trials  began.  One  dark 
morning  he  awoke  and  said,  "  What  needs  I  lie  gantin 
here,  I'll  rise,  and  get  a  licht."  So  he  got  his  flint  and 
steel  and  tinder  box  and  set  to  work.  Nowadays  we 
strike  a  match  and  have  a  light,  but  Saunders  had  no 
such  easy  task.  The  sparks  from  the  steel  and  flint 
would  not  ignite  the  tinder,  so  he  struck  vehemently, 
missed  the  flint,  and  drove  the  steel  deep  into  his 
knuckles. 

"  This'll  never  dae,"  he  cried.  "  I'm  tired  o'  this  life 
— I'm  determined  to  hae  a  wnfe."  He  succeeded  at 
last  in  lighting  the  fire  and  made  his  parritch,  but  he 
burnt  them,  and  the  soot  came  doon  the  chimney  and 
fell  into  them.  "  I'm  pooshinin  mysel',"  he  said;  "  I'm 
fa'in'  awa'  frae  my  claes,  an'  my  breeks  are  hingin'  in 
wrunkles  about  me.  I  said  in  my  haste  this  mornin' 
that  I  wad  hae  a  wife,  an'  noo  I  say  in  my  solemn 
leisure,  '  TJiis  very  day  I  shall  have  a  wife  '  1  " 


SAUNDKRS    McGLASIIAN'S   COURTSHIP  237 

Saunders  was  a  simple-minded  man,  but  no  simple- 
ton. He  knew  nothing  of  the  ways  of  women.  Vari- 
ous maidens  had  set  their  caps  at  him.  but  he  had  never 
seen  it.  He  knew  his  Bible  well,  and  naturally  turned 
to  Solomon  for  advice.,  but  did  not  get  nuich  comfort 
there.  "  Hoo  am  I  to  understand  women,"  he  said, 
*'  for  Solomon  was  the  wisest  man  that  ever  lived,  and 
he  said  that  Jic  couldna  understand  the  ways  o'  women 
— it  wasna  for  the  want  o'  opportunity  ony  way." 

Instinct  told  him  that  when  he  went  a-wooing  his 
best  dress  should  go  on;  and  looking  in  the  glass  he 
said :  "  I  canna  gang  to  see  the  lasses  wi'  a  beard  like 
that."  So  he  shaved  himself,  although  he  was  never 
known  to  shave  except  on  Saturday;  and  he  was  such 
a  strict  Sabbatarian  that  if  he  began  to  shave  late  on 
Saturday  night,  and  the  clock  chappit  twelve  when  he 
had  but  one  half  of  his  face  scrapit,  he  would  leave  it 
till  Sunday  was  over.  The  shaving  done  he  rubbed  his 
chin,  saying,  with  great  simplicity:  "1  think  that 
should  dae  for  the  lasses  noo."  Tlien  he  turned  and 
admired  himself  in  the  glass,  for  vanity  is  the  last  thing 
that  dies,  even  in  man.  "  Ye're  no  a  very  ill  lookin' 
man  after  a',  Saunders;  but  it's  a'  very  weel  bein'  guid- 
lookin'  and  weel  drest,  but  whatna  woman  am  I  gaun 
to  seek  for  my  wife?  " 

He  got  at  length  paper  and  a  pencil  and  wrote  down 
with  great  deliberation  six  female  names  in  large  half 
text,  carefully  dotting  all  the  "  i's  "  and  stroking  all 
the  "  t's,"  and  surveyed  the  list  as  follows :  "  That's 
a'  the  women  I  mind  about.  There's  no  great  choice 
among  them  I  think — let  me  see  " — putting  on  his 
spectacles — "  it's  no  very  wiselike  gaun  courtin'  when 


238  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

a  body  needs  to  wear  specs.  Several  o'  them  I've  n'ever 
spoken  till,  but  I  suppose  that's  of  no  consequence  in 
this  case.  There's  Mary  Young.  She's  no  very  young, 
at  ony  rate.  Elspeth  M'Farlane,  but  she's  blind  o'  the 
richt  e'e;  and  it's  not  necessary  that  Saunders  McGlash- 
an  should  marry  an  imperfect  woman.  Kirsty  For- 
syth— she's  been  married  twice  already,  an'  surely  twa 
men's  enough  for  ony  woman.  Mary  Morison — a  very 
bonnie  woman,  but  she's  gotten  a  confounded  lang 
tongue,  an  they  say  the  hair  upon  her  head's  no'  her 
ain  hair — I'm  certain  it's  her  ain  tongue,  at  ony  rate ! 
Jeannie  Miller,  wi'  plenty  o'  siller — not  to  be  despised. 
Janet  Henderson,  wi'  plenty  o'  love.  I  ken  that  she 
has  a  gude  heart — for  she  was  kind  till  her  mither  lang 
bedfast;  an'  when  ony  barefoot  laddie  braks  his  taes, 
he  rises  and  gowls,  and  runs  straight  to  her  hoose,  and 
she  dights  his  bubbly  nose  and  claps  him  on  the  head 
and  says,  '  rin  awa'  hame  noo,  ye'll  be  a  man  afore  yer 
mither ! ' 

"  Noo,  which  o'  thu.e  six  will  I  go  to  first?  I  think 
the  first  four  can  bide  awee,  but  the  last  twa — siller  and 
love ! — love  and  siller !  Eh,  wadna  it  be  grand  if  a 
person  could  get  them  baith !  but  that's  no  allowed  in 
the  Christian  dispensation.  The  patriarchs  had  mair 
liberty.  Abraham  wad  just  hae  ta'en  them  baith,  but 
I'm  no  Abraham.  They  say  siller's  the  god  o'  the  warld 
— I  never  had  ony  mair  use  for  siller  than  to  buy  meat 
and  claes,  to  put  a  penny  in  the  plate  on  Sabbath,  and 
gie  a  bawbee  to  a  blind  fiddler.  But  they  say  heaven's 
love  and  love's  heaven,  an'  if  I  bring  Janet  Henderson 
to  my  fireside,  and  she  sits  at  that  side  darnin'  stockin's, 
and  I  sit  at  this  side  readin'  after  my  day's  wark,  an' 


SAUNDERS   McGLASHAN'S   COURTSHIP  239 

1  lauch  ower  to  her,  and  she  lauchs  ower  tae  me,  isna 
that  heaven  upon  earth?  A  body  can  get  on  in  this 
warld  withoot  siller,  but  they  canna  get  on  in  this 
warld  withoot  love.  I'll  gie  Janet  Henderson  the  first 
offer." 

Pie  put  on  his  best  Sabbath-day  hat,  and  issued  forth 
into  the  street.  Instantly  at  all  the  windows  com- 
manding a  \iew  of  the  street,  there  were  female  noses 
flattened  against  the  panes.  Voices  might  be  heard 
crying:  "Alither!  Mither!  Mither!  Come  here! 
come  here !  come  here  !  Look !  look !  look !  there's 
Saunders  McGlashan  wi'  his  beard  off  and  his  Sabbath- 
day  claes  on  in  the  middle  o'  the  week;  he's  lookin' 
awfu'  melancholy — I  wonder  wha's  dead." 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  sensation  he  was  creating, 
he  walked  gravely  on  toward  the  house  of  Janet  Hen- 
derson. She  at  this  moment,  not  knowing  that  her  first 
offer  was  so  near,  was  sitting  spinning,  sighing,  and 
saying :  '*  Eh,  preserve  me !  it's  a  weary  warld !  I've 
been  thirty  year  auld  for  the  last  ten  years  (sings). 

•'  *  Naebody  comin'  to  marry  me, 
Naebody  comin'  tae  woo! 
Naebody  comin'  to  marry  me, 
Naebody  comin'  tae  woo.'  " 

The  door  opened,  and  there  stood  Saunders  Mc- 
Glashan. 

"Eh!  preserve  me,  Saunders,  is  that  you?  A  sicht 
o'  you's  guid  for  sair  e'en !  " 

The  maiden  span  and  took  side-long  glances.  A 
woman  can  see  mair  wi  the  tail  o'  her  e'e  than  a  man 
can  see  with  his  two  eyes  wide  o])en. 

"'  Come  awa'  into  the  lire.    \\'hat's  up  wi'  ye  the  day, 


240  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

Saunders?  Ye're  awfu'  weel  lickit  up,  ye  are;  I  never 
saw  ye  lookin'  sae  handsome.    What  is't  ye're  after?  " 

"  I'm  gaun'  aboot  seekin'  a  wife !  " 

"  Eh,  Saunders,  if  it's  that  ye  want,  ye  needna  want 
that  very  lang,  I'm  thinkin'." 

*'  But  ye  dinna  seem  to  understan'  me;  it's  you  I 
want  for  my  wife." 

"  Saunders  McGlashan !  think  shame  o'  yersel' 
makin'  a  fool  o'  a  young  person  in  that  manner." 

''  I'm  makin'  nae  fool  o'  ye,  Janet.  This  very  day 
I'm  determined  to  hae  a  wife.  You  are  the  first  I've 
spoken  till.  I  houp  there's  nae  offence,  Janet.  I  meant 
no  offence.  Eh  !  oh,  very  weel,  if  that's  the  way  o't,  it 
canna  be  helped."  And  slowl}?  unfolding  the  paper, 
which  he  had  taken  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  "  I  have 
several  other  women's  names  markit  doun  here  tae  ca' 
upon." 

She  saw  the  man  meant  business,  stopped  her  spin- 
ning, looked  down,  was  long  lost  in  thought,  raised 
her  face,  and  broke  the  silence  as  follows :  "  Saunders 
(ahem)  McGlashan  (ahem),  I've  given  your  serious 
offer  great  reflection;  I've  spoken  to  my  heart,  and  the 
answer's  come  back  to  my  tongue.  I'm  sorry  tae  hurt 
yer  feelin's,  Saunders,  but  what  the  heart  speaketh  the 
tongue  repeateth.  A  body  maun  act  in  thae  matters 
according  to  their  conscience,  for  they  maun  gie  an 
account  at  the  last.  So  I  think,  Saunders — I  think  I'll 
just — I'll  just  " — covering  her  face  with  her  apron — 
"  I'll  just  tak  ye.  Eh,  Saunders,  gae  'wa'  wi'  ye ! — gae 
'wa' !  gae  'wa' !  "  But  the  maiden  did  not  require  to 
resist,  for  he  made  no  attack,  but  solemnly  sat  in  his 
seat,  and  solemnly  said :    "  I'm  rale  muckle  oljleeged 


SAUNDERS    M< CLASIIAN'S   COURTSHIP  24! 

to  ye,  Janet :  it'll  no  be  necessary  to  ca'  oil  ony  o'  thae 
ither  lasses  noo  !  " 

He  rose,  thinking  it  was  all  over  and  turned  toward 
the  door,  but  the  maiden  was  there  first,  with  her  back 
at  the  door,  and  said :  "  Preserve  me !  what  have  I 
dune?  if  my  neebors  come  tae  ken  that  I've  ta'en  you 
at  the  very  first  ofi'er  they'll  point  the  finger  of  scorn 
at  me,  and  say  ahint  my  1)ack  as  lang  as  I  live :  '  That 
ivoman  was  dcciii'  for  a  man  ';  so  ye  maun  come  here 
every  day  for  the  next  month,  and  come  in  day  licht, 
so  that  they'll  a'  see  ye  comin'  an'  gaun,  and  they'll 
say :  '  That  woman's  no  easy  coortit,  I  can  tell  ye;  the 
puir  man's  wearin'  his  shoon  afY  his  feet !  '  For,  Saun- 
ders !  though  I'll  be  your  wife,  Saunders,  I'm  deter- 
mined to  hae  my  dues  o'  courtship  a'  the  same." 

She  lit  the  lamp  of  love  in  his  heart  at  last.  For  the 
first  time  in  his  long  life  he  felt  the  unmistakable,  holy, 
heavenly  glow;  his  heart  broke  into  a  full  storm  of 
love,  and  stooping  down  he  took  her  yielding  hand  in 
his  and  said:  "  Yes,  I  wuU;  yes,  I  wull;  I'll  come  twice 
every  day.  my  Jo  !  my  Jo — Jaanet !  "  Before  the  un- 
happy man  knew  where  he  was  he  had  kissed  the 
maiden!  who  was  long  expecting  it;  but  the  man 
blushed  crimson,  feeling  guilty  of  a  crime  which  he 
thought  no  woman  could  forgive,  for  it  was  the  first 
kiss  he  had  <7otten  or  oiven  in  fiftv  lang  Scottish,  kiss- 
less  years — while  the  woman  stood  with  a  look  of  su- 
preme satisfaction,  looking  for  more,  but  as  no  more 
seemed  coming — for  a  woman  can  see  a  kiss  a  long 
way  oft'— she  lifted  the  corner  o'  her  apron  and  dichted 
her  moo,  and  said  to  him  as  she  dichted  her  moo: 
"  Eh,  Saunders  IMcGlashan  !  isna  that  rale  refreshm' !  " 


THE  ONE-LEGGED  GOOSE 

F.     HOPKINSON    SMITH 

"  Wiist  scrape  I  eber  got  into  wid  old  Marsa  John 
was  ober  Henny.  Henny  was  a  young  gal  dat 
b'longed  to  Colonel  Lloyd  Barbour,  on  de  next  plan- 
tation to  ourn.  I  tell  ye  she  was  a  harricane  in  dem 
days.  She  come  into  de  kitchen  one  time  where  I  was 
helpin'  git  de  dinner  ready  an'  de  cook  had  gone  to  de 
spring-house,  an  she  says: 

*'  '  Chad,  what  yer  cookin'  dat  smells  so  nice?  ' 

"  '  Dat's  a  goose,'  I  says,  *  cookin'  for  Marsa  John's 
dinner.  We  got  quality,'  says  I,  pointin'  to  de  dinin'- 
room  do'." 

"  '  Quality ! '  she  says.  *  Spec'  I  know  what  de  qual- 
ity is.    Dat's  for  you  and  de  cook.' 

"  Wid  dat  she  grabs  a  caarvin'  knife  from  de  table 
opens  de  do'  ob  de  big  oven,  cuts  off  a  leg  ob  dfe 
goose,  an'  dis'pears  round  de  kitchen  corner  wid  de 
leg  in  her  mouf. 

"  'Fo'  I  knowed  whar  I  was  Marsa  John  comc  to 

de  kitchen  do'  an'  says,  '  Gittin'  late,  Chad;    bring  in 

de  dinner.'    You  see.  Major,  dey  ain't  no  up  an'  down 

stairs  in  de  big  house,  like  it  is  yer;   kitchin  an'  dinin'- 

room  all  on  de  same  flo'. 

**  Well,  sah,  I  was  scared  to  def.  but  I  tuk  dat  goose 
24a 


THE  one-legc;ed  goose  243 

an'  laid  him  ^\^cl  de  cut  side  down  on  de  bottom  of 
de  pan  'fo'  de  cook  got  back,  put  some  dressin'  an' 
stuffin'  ober  him,  an'  shet  de  stove  do'.  Den  I  tiik 
de  sweet  potatoes  an'  de  hominy  an'  put  'em  on  de 
table,  an'  den  I  went  back  in  de  kitchen  to  git  de 
baked  ham.  I  put  on  de  ham  an'  some  mo'  dishes, 
an'  Marsa  says,  lookin'  up: 

"  '  I  t'ought  dere  w'as  a  roast  goose,  Chad? ' 

"  *  I  ain't  yerd  nothin'  'bout  no  goose,'  I  says.  *  ril 
ask  de  cook.' 

"  Next  minute  I  yerd  old  Marsa  a-hollerin'; 

"  '  Mammy  Jane,  ain't  we  got  a  goose?  ' 

"  *  Lord-a-massy !  yes,  Marsa.  Chad,  you  wu'th- 
less  nigger,  ain't  you  tuk  dat  goose  out  yit?' 

"  '  Is  we  got  a  goose? '  said  I. 

"  '  Is  z^'C  gat  a  goose?    Didn't  you  help  pick  it?  ' 

"  '  I  see  whar  my  hair  was  short,  an'  I  snatched 
up  a  hot  dish  from  de  hearth,  opened  de  oven  do', 
an'  slide  de  goose  in  jes  as  he  was,  an'  lay  him  down 
befo'  Marsa  John. 

"  '  Now  see  what  de  ladies'll  have  for  dinner,'  says 
old  IMarsa,  pickin'  up  his  caarvin'  knife. 

" '  \\'hat'll  you  take  for  dinner,  miss? '  says  I. 
'Baked  ham?' 

"  '  No,'  she  says,  lookin'  up  to  whar  Marsa  John  sat; 
*  I  think  I'll  take  a  leg  ob  dat  goose' — jes  so. 

"  Well,  Marsa  cut  ofT  de  leg  an'  put  a  little  stuffin' 
an'  gravy  on  wid  a  spoon,  an'  says  to  me,  *  Chad,  see 
what  dat  gemman'll  have.' 

"  '  \\'hat'll  you  take  for  dinner,  sah?  '  says  I.  '  Nice 
breast  o'  go-:)se,  or  slice  o'  ham?' 

"  *  No;   I  think  I'll  take  a  leg  of  dat  goose,'  he  says. 


244  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

"  I  didn't  say  nuffin',  but  I  knowed  berry  well  he 
wa'n't  a-gwine  to  git  it. 

"  But,  Major,  you  oughter  seen  ole  Marsa  lookin' 
for  der  udder  leg  ob  dat  goose !  He  rolled  him  ober 
on  de  dish,  dis  way  an'  dat  way,  an'  den  he  jabbed 
dat  ole  bone-handled  caarvin'  fork  in  him  an'  hel'  him 
up  ober  de  dish  an'  looked  under  him  an'  on  top  ob 
him,  an  den  he  says,  kinder  sad  like: 

"  '  Chad,  whar  is  de  udder  leg  ob  dat  goose?  * 

"  '  It  didn't  hab  none,'  says  I. 

"  '  You  mean  ter  say,  Chad,  dat  de  gooses  on  my 
plantation  on'y  got  one  leg?  ' 

"  '  Some  ob  'em  has  an'  some  ob  'em  ain't.  You 
see,  Marsa,  we  got  two  kinds  in  de  pond,  an'  we  was 
a  little  boddered  to-day,  so  Mammy  Jane  cooked  dis 
one  'cause  I  cotched  it  fust.' 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  lookin'  like  he  look  when  he  send 
for  you  in  de  little  room,  '  I'll  settle  wid  ye  after  din- 
ner.' 

"  Well,  dar  I  was  shiverin'  an'  shakin'  in  my  shoes 
an'  droppin'  gravy  an'  spillin'  de  wine  on  de  table- 
cloth, I  was  dat  shuck  up;  an'  when  de  dinner  was 
ober  he  calls  all  de  ladies  an'  gemmen,  an'  says,  '  Now 
come  down  to  de  duck  pond.  I'm  gwineter  show  dis 
nigger  dat  all  de  gooses  on  my  plantation  got  mo'  den 
one  leg.' 

"  I  followed  'long,  trapesin'  after  de  whole  kit  an* 
b'ilin',  an'  when  we  got  to  de  pond  " — here  Chad 
nearly  went  into  a  convulsion  with  suppressed  laughter 
— "  dar  was  de  gooses  sittin'  on  a  log  in  de  middle 
of  dat  ole  green  goose-pond  wid  one  leg  stuck  down 
■ — so — an'  de  udder  tucked  under  de  wing:." 


THE   ONE-LEGGED    GOOSE  245 

Chad  was  now  on  one  leg,  balancing  himself  by  my 
chair,  the  tears  running  down  his  cheeks. 

"  '  Dar  IMassa,'  says  I,  '  don't  ye  see?  Look  at  dat 
ole  gray  goose !  Dat's  de  berry  match  ob  de  one  we 
had  to-day.' 

"  Den  de  ladies  all  hollered  an'  de  gemmen  laughed 
so  loud  dey  yerd  'em  at  de  big  house. 

"  *  Stop,  you  black  scoun'rel !  '  Marsa  John  says, 
his  face  gittin'  white  an'  he  a-jerkin'  his  handkerchief 
from  his  pocket.     '  Shoo !  ' 

"  Major,  I  hope  to  have  my  brain  kicked  out  by 
a  lame  grasshopper  if  ebery  one  ob  dem  gooses  didn't 
put  down  de  udder  leg ! 

"  '  Now,  you  lyin'  nigger,'  he  says,  rainin'  his  cane 
ober  my  head,  '  I'll  show  you ' 

"  '  Stop  Alarsa  John !  '  I  hollered;  '  'tain't  fair,  'tain't 
fair.' 

''  *  Why  ain't  it  fair?  '  says  he. 

"  *  'Cause,'  says  I,  '  you  didn't  say  "  Shoo !  "  to  de 
goose  what  was  on  de  table.'  " 


THE  TWA  COURTIN'S 

DAVID     KENNEDY 

Behold  twa  aiild  wives  seated  at  the  fireside  drink- 
[ing  the  blackest  of  tea,  the  old  brown  teapot  at  the 
fire,  blackened  with  use  and  broken  at  the  stroup. 

"  Eh,  woman,  but  that's  grand  tea — it  sticks  to  the 
roof  o'  yer  moo!  Nane  o'  yer  new-fangled  German 
silver  teapots  for  me;  ye  dinna  get  the  guid  o'  the 
tea  unless  it  stands  half  an  hour  at  the  fire." 

There  they  sit,  cracking  ower  their  young  days,  the 
one  nervous,  thin,  black-eyed — poetic;  the  other  squat 
and  stout,  practised,  matter-of-fact — prosaic.  But 
they  both  enjoy  a  gossip,  and  kickle  ower  the  stories 
o'  their  courtin',  the  recollection  of  which  seems  even 
sweeter  than  the  reality. 

"  Eh,  but  thae  were  grand  days,  thae  young  days ! 
weel  dae  I  mind — dear  me,  this  is  the  very  nicht  forty 
years  sin  that  oor  John  socht  me  for  his  wife.  I'll 
tell  ye  the  whole  story — if  ye'll  promise  to  tell  me  what 
your  man  said  to  you  when  he  socht  you;  but  ye 
mauna  repeat  it,  mind  ye,  to  ony  other  body. 

"  John  and  me  had  gane  thegither  for  five  year.    It's 

a  lang  time,  and  I  began  to  weary  on  John — a  woman 

doesna  like  to  hing  on  ower  lang,  ye  ken — I  was  be- 

ginnin'  to  be  feared  that  if  he  didna  speak  soon  he 

widna  speak  ava. 

"  Tuesday    nichts   and    Friday    nichts   were   John's 

246 


THE   TWA    COURTIX'S  247 

nichts,  so  Jolin  and  me  were  rale  sib.  \\'eel,  ye  ken 
my  faither's  hoose  stood  in  the  middle  o'  a  garden, 
and  when  John  cam  to  see  me  he  gae  three  raps  on 
the  window.  Some  chiels  gae  twa  raps  and  some  four 
raps  and  a  whistle,  l)ut  oor  John,  ye  ken,  just  gae  three 
raps.  W'eel,  tliis  nicht  we  were  a-sittin'  at  the  fireside, 
three  raj^s  cam  to  the  window,  and  my  heart  gae  a 
dunt,  for  1  kenned  it  was  //////.  lUit  I  never  let  on,  ye 
ken.  By  and  ])y  1  laid  doon  the  st<:)ckin'  I  was  darnin' 
and  slipit  oot  quietly,  and  says  I,  '  Is  that  you,  John?  ' 
and  oot  o'  the  dark  a  deep  voice  says,  '  Ay,  it's  me, 
Janet.'  Then  I  heard  a  motion  among  the  bushes, 
and  it  cam"  nearer  and  nearer  till  John  was  at  my  side, 
and  eh !  sic  a  wark  he  made  wi"  me !  " 

"  Eh,  w'oman,  look  at  that  de'il  o'  a  laddie  glow- 
erin'  at  ye  and  takin'  a'  ye  say." 

"  Hoots,  awa',  woman !  the  laddie's  ower  young  to 
understand  oor  clavcrs.  Here's  a  piece  an'  treacle  tae 
ye,  Davie.     That'll  shut  his  mouth  and  his  lugs  baith. 

"  Weel,  awa  doon  the  brae  we  gaed  thegither.  '  It's 
a  fine  nicht,'  says  I.  '  Grand  weather  for  the  craps,' 
says  John;  but  no  anither  word  did  he  speak.  John 
was  never  a  great  hand  at  sayin"  nuickle,  and  this  nicht 
he  was  waur  than  ever.  So  doon  the  brae  we  gaed, 
and  I  fand  John's  arm  slippin'  round  my  waist.  By 
and  by  I  made  believe  to  miss  my  foot,  ye  ken,  and 
that  gar'd  John  hand  me  tighter.  I'm  tellin'  ye  the 
whole  truth,  altho'  1  think  black  burnin'  shame.  Folks 
thinks  that  it's  the  lads  that  coorts  the  lasses.  It's 
naethin'  o'  the  kind.  It's  the  lasses  that  coorts  the  lads, 
for  I'm  sure  if  I  hadna  gi'en  John  a  hand,  he  wad 
never  hae  gotten  on  ava. 


248  HUMOROUS   DIAT^ECT 

"  Eat  awa'  at  yer  piece  and  treacle,  laddie,  and  dinna 
ye  glower  at  me  like  that. 

"  Weel,  at  the  foot  o'  the  brae  we  sat  aneath  a  bus', 
whaiir  there  waur  just  room  for  John  and  me,  and  its 
bonnie  branches  hid  us  frae  every  mortal  e'e.  Even 
the  impertinent  man  in  the  moon,  that  sees  sae  mony 
things  he  shouldna  see,  couldna  see  in  on  us  that  nicht. 
There  we  sat  a  lang  time,  and  John  as  usual  said  naeth- 
ing,  but  a'  this  time  his  arm  was  roond  my  waist,  and 
at  last  it  began  to  shake,  and  he  said,  '  Janet,'  and 
thinks  I  to  mysel',  I've  catched  John  at  last;  but 
something  stuck  in  his  throat,  for  he  said  nae  mair. 
And  there  we  sat  and  sat  an'  better  sat  an'  eh !  we 
were  sae  happy !  '  Surely,'  thinks  I,  '  this  is  heaven 
upon  earth.'  But  all  of  a  sudden  John  astonished  me, 
for  a  better  behaved  young  man  never  lived,  he  took  a 
hand  o'  my  head  and  he  pressed  it  till  his  bosom  and 
I  fand  his  heart  knock,  k-nock,  k-nockin'  against  my 
lug,  and  says  he  to  me,  says  he :  '  Janet,  Janet, 
w-w-will  ye,  will  ye  marry  me?  '  Eh,  woman,  wasna 
I  richt  glad  to  hear  that !  But  a  lassie  canna  expect 
to  hear  that  very  often  in  her  life,  so  she  maunna  be 
in  a  hurry  to  answer.  The  tears  were  rinnin'  doon  my 
cheeks,  John's  arm  was  roond  my  waist,  and  my  head 
was  on  John's  bosom,  and  his  heart  was  k-nockin' 
waur  than  ever.  But  I  didna  wait  ower  lang,  for  fear 
I  should  lose  him  a'th'gither;  so  says  I  to  him,  says 
I :  '  Jo-o-hn,  yes,'  and  wi'  that  oor  John  gaed  clean 
daft  a'th'gither,  and  he  fairly  worried  me  up  wi'  kisses." 

"  Hoot  awa',  woman,"  said  the  prosaic  wife,  "  sic 
ongaeins !  My  man  and  me  were  na'  sic  fools.  When 
my  man  cam'  to  see  me,  be  cam'  into  the  hoose  like 


THE    TWA    COURTIX'S  249 

ony  decent  man — to  Ije  sure  there  was  nane  but  him 
and  me  in  the  hoose  at  the  time — and  he  sits  doon  in 
my  faitlier's  chair,  puts  one  leg  ower  the  tither,  and 
toasts  his  taes  at  the  fire.  '  Ony  news?  '  says  I.  '  Ou ! 
ay,'  says  he;  '  Ive  ta'en  a  hoose.'  '  Ta'en  a  hoose,' 
says  T.  *  Ay !  ta'en  a  hoose,  and  fiintisJiiii'  a  hoose.' 
'  Losh  be  here,'  quo  I,  '  ta'en  a  hoose  and  furnishin'  a 
hoose!  wha  are  ye  furnishin'  the  hoose  for?'  'I'm 
furnishin'  tlie  hoose  for  you.'  '  Oh,  if  that  be  tlie  way 
o't,  it  wad  he  a  great  pity  to  lose  the  guid  fnrnitur.'  " 


THE  SHIP  OF  FAITH 

ANONYMOUS 

A  certain  colored  brother  had  been  holdingf  forth 
to  his  Httle  flock  upon  the  ever-fruitful  topic  of  Faith, 
and  he  closed  his  exhortation  about  as  follows : 

"  My  bruddren,  ef  yous  gwine  to  git  saved,  you  got 
to  git  on  board  de  Ship  ob  Faith.  I  tell  you,  my 
bruddren,  dere  ain't  no  odder  way.  Dere  ain't  no  git- 
ten  up  de  back  stairs,  nor  goin'  'cross  lots;  you  can't 
do  dat  away,  my  bruddren,  you  got  to  git  on  board 
de  Ship  of  Faith.  Once  'pon  a  time  dere  was  a  lot  ob 
colored  people,  an'  dey  was  all  gwine  to  de  promised 
land.  Well,  dey  knowed  dere  w'an't  no  odder  way 
for  'em  to  do  but  to  git  on  board  de  Ship  of  Faith. 
So  dey  all  went  down  an'  got  on  board,  de  ole  gran- 
faders,  an'  de  ole  granmudders,  an'  de  pickaninnies, 
an'  all  de  res'  ob  'em.  Dey  all  got  on  board  'ceptin' 
one  mons'us  big  feller,  he  said  he's  gwine  to  swim,  he 
was.  '  W'y !  '  dey  said,  '  you  can't  swim  so  fur  like 
dat.  It  am  a  powerful  long  way  to  de  promised  land ! ' 
He  said,  '  I  kin  swim  anywhur,  I  kin.  I  git  board  no 
boat,  no,  'deed ! '  Well,  my  bruddren,  all  dey  could 
say  to  dat  poor  disluded  man  dey  couldn't  git  him 
on  board  de  Ship  of  Faith,  so  dey  started  off.  De 
day  was  fair,  de  win'  right;   de  sun  shinin'  and  ev'ry- 

t'ing  b'utiful,  an'  dis  big  feller  he  pull  off  his  close  and 

259 


THE   SHIP   OF   FAITH  2$! 

plunge  in  de  water.  Well,  he  war  a  powerful  swim- 
mer, dat  man,  'deed  he  war;  he  war  dat  powerful  he 
kep'  right  'long  side  de  boat  all  de  time;  he  kep'  a 
hollerin'  out  to  de  people  on  de  boat,  sayin' :  '  What 
you  doin'  dere,  you  folks,  brilin'  away  in  de  sun;  you 
better  come  down  heah  in  de  water,  nice  an'  cool 
down  here.'  But  dey  said :  '  Man  alive,  you  better 
come  up  here  in  dis  boat  while  you  got  a  chance.' 
But  he  said,  'No,  indeedy!  I  git  aboard  no  boat; 
I'm  havin'  plenty  fun  in  de  water.'  Well,  bimeby,  my 
bruddren,  what  you  tink  dat  pore  man  seen?  A  hor- 
rible, aii'ful  shark,  my  bruddren;  mouf  wide  open, 
teef  mor'n  a  foot  long,  ready  to  chaw  dat  pore  man 
all  up  de  minute  he  catch  him.  Well,  when  he  seen 
dat  shark  he  begun  to  git  awful  scared,  an'  he  holler 
out  to  de  folks  on  board  de  ship :  '  Take  me  on  board, 
take  me  on  board,  quick !  '  But  dey  said :  *  No.  in- 
deed; you  wouldn't  come  up  here  when  you  had  an 
invite,  you  got  to  swim  now.' 

''  He  look  over  his  shoulder  an'  he  seen  dat  shark 
a-comin',  an'  he  let  hisself  out.  Fust  it  was  de  man 
an'  den  it  was  de  shark,  an'  den  it  was  de  man  again, 
dat  away,  my  bruddren,  pliuii  to  dc  promised  hmd. 
Dat  am  de  blessed  troof  I'm  a-tellin'  you  dis  minute. 
But  what  do  you  t'ink  was  a-waitin'  for  him  on  de 
odder  shore  when  he  got  dere?  A  Jwrribh\  azcful 
lion,  my  bruddren,  was  a-stan'in'  dere  on  de  shore, 
a-lashin'  his  sides  wid  his  tail,  an'  a-roarin'  away  fit  to 
devour  dat  poor  nigger  de  minit  he  git  on  der  shore. 
Well,  he  ivar  powerful  scared  den,  he  don't  know  what 
he  gwine  to  do.  If  he  stay  in  de  water  de  shark  cat 
him  up;   if  he  go  on  de  shore  de  lion  eat  him  up;   he 


252  HUMOROUS    DIALECT 

dunno  what  to  do.  But  he  put  his  trust  in  de  Lord, 
an'  went  for  de  shore.  Dat  Hon  he  give  a  fearful  roar 
an'  bound  for  him;  but,  my  bruddren,  as  sure  as  you 
'live  an'  breeve,  dat  horrible,  awful  lion  he  jump  clean 
ober  dat  pore  feller's  head  into  de  water;  an'  dc  shark 
cat  dc  lion.  But,  my  bruddren,  don't  you  put  your 
trust  in  no  sich  circumstance;  dat  pore  man  he  done 
git  saved,  but  I  tell  you  dc  Lord  ami  a-gzvinc  to  furnish 
a  lion  for  every  nigger f  " 


t  O  ET  R\ 

DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

PATHETIC 

HUMOROUS 

HUMOROUS    DIALECT 

LYRIC 

DRAMATIC 


If  thou  indeed  oerive  thy  light  from  Heaven, 

Shine,  Poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content : 

The  Star  that  from  the  zenith  darts  its  beams, 

Visible  though  it  be  to  half  the  Earth,  1 

Though  half  a  sphere  be  conscious  of  its  brightnesSo 

Is  yet  of  no  diviner  origin, 

No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that  burns, 

Like  an  untended  watch-fire,  on  the  ridge 

Of  some  dark  mountain  ;  or  than  those  which  seem 

Humbly  to  hang,  like  twinkling  winter  lamps. 

Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees. 

William  Wordsworth 


DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

THE   SORROW   OF    ROHAB  * 

ARLO    BATES 
I. 

The  foes  of  Rohab  thrust  the  tongue  in  cheek, 
Smiled  in  their  beards,  and  muttered  each  to  each: 
Fleet  messengers  went  riding  north  and  south 
And  east  and  west  among  the  tribes,  while  bruit 
Of  rumor  ever  louder  waxed,  as  plots 
Begot  and  hatched  in  darkness  bolder  grew, 
And  showed  themselves  in  day. 

As  adders  held 
In  a  strong  grasp  writhe  to  be  free  and  sting. 
The  hostile  tribes  had  writhed  while  Rohab's  hand 
Held  them  in  clutch  of  steel;  but  now  at  last, 
When  Rohab  left  the  spear  to  thirst,  the  sword 
To  rust  undrawn,  and  heard  no  sound  more  harsh 
Than  the  lute's  pleading;  now  that  Lutra's  love 
To  him  was  all  in  all,  to  which  mere  crown 
And  throne  and  people  counted  naught, — there  rose 
A  hundred  murmurs  sinister — the  stir 
And  rustle  of  his  foes  who  knew  their  time 
Had  come. 

*  See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  553. 
■    f        ..  255 


256  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

His  people  called  for  Rohab.     Fear 
Fell  like  the  famine's  blight.     His  nobles  came 
Up  to  the  doors  behind  which  Rohab  dwelt 
With  joy  and  Liitra,   but  the  lutes  within 
Mocked  at  their  suit  with  merry  cadences, 
Behind  the  portals  barred.     The  baser  sort, 
Angered  with  fright,  and  losing  fear  through  fear 
More  great,  sang  ribald  rhymes  about  their  lord 
Under  his  very  lattice;  and  he  heard 
Only  to  smile  in  hearing.     "  How  a  w  ench," 
They  carolled  shrilly,  "  takes  the  conqueror 
To  be  her  plaything!     What  is  Rohab  now? 
Only  an  ape  that  capers  to  dehght 
A  wanton's  leisure  !  "     Stinging  ribaldry 
The  king  and  Lutra  laughed  at,  though  the  voice 
Of  all  the  land's  despair  was  in  the  song. 
Sedition  waxed  apace;  as  rustlings  run 
Foreboding  through  the  forest  w'hen  the  storm 
Gathers  its  force,  through  all  the  army  stirred 
Murmurs  of  anger;  while  the  stealthy  foe 
Crept  ever  nearer. 

Then,  in  wrath  was  half 
Despair,  by  his  sire's  beard  swore  Isak,  next 
To  Rohab's  self  in  place  and  might,  that,  life 
And  honor  though  it  cost,  he  would  have  forth 
The  king,  even  though  he  must  needs  be  torn 
From  Lutra's  arms. 

"  No  living  man," 
He  muttered,  "  none,  might  overcome  the  king; 
But  she—" 

And  down  the  dusky  corridors 
Forbidden  to  the  foot  of  man  he  went. 
Still  muttering  in  his  beard  fiercely, 

"Butshe— !" 


THE   SORROW   OF   ROHAB  257 


II. 


The  smoke  of  censers,  where  heaped  ambergris 

And  myrrh  and  sandal-wood  and  cinnamon 

Fragrantly  smouldered,  through  the  languid  air 

Crept  upward,  wavering  slowly  as  it  rose 

To  fans  of  slave  girls,  whose  fair  polished  limbs 

Glowed  through  the  mists  of  gauzes  roseate. 

The  pearly  fall  of  fountains,  and  afar 

The  sound  of  distant  bells,  alone  broke  through 

The  luscious  stillness  of  the  afternoon. 

At  Lutra's  shell-pink  feet  great  Rohab  lay, 

His  mighty  body  lapped  in  silken  ease; 

While  all  his  soul  yearned  with  love's  ecstasies. 

One  playful  finger  of  her  slender  hand 

Dented  his  swarthy  cheek's  rough  bronze  till  white 

The  pink  nail  showed,  so  hard  she  pressed  it  in. 

Whereat  he  laughed,  and  caught  the  teasing  hand, 

And  kissed  it  till  she  laughing  drew  it  back. 

Then,  to  escape  the  burning  of  his  eyes, 

She  turned  and  stretched  her  arm  like  a  swan's  neck 

After  her  lute;  a  shower  of  pearl,  she  ran 

Her  fingers  twinkling  down  the  liquid  strings, 

And  broke  into  a  lay,  meeting  his  glance 

With  eyes  where  ever  love  and  laughter  welled  :— 

"Sweetheart,  thy  lips  are  touched  with  flame; 
Sweetheart,  thy  glowing  ardor  tame; — 
Sweetheart,  thy  love  how  can  I  blame, 
When  I,  too,  feel  its  fire, 
When  all  thy  fond  desire. 
Sweetheart.  I  kmw  the  qij-pT 


25«  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  Sweetheart,  thine  eyes  hke  rubies  glow; 
Sweetheart,  no  more  regard  me  so; — 
Sweetheart,  I  cannot  chide  thee  though. 
Since  my  looks  too  are  burning, 
Since  I,  too,  throb  with  yearning; 
Sweetheart,  thy  pangs  I  know ! 

"Sweetheart,  the  blood  leaps  in  thy  cheek; 
Sweetheart,  thy  very  heart-throbs  speak;— 
Sweetheart,  to  chide  I  am  too  weak; 

My  heart,  so  hotly  beating, 

Is  still  thy  name  repeating; 
Sweetheart,  to  still  it  seek ! 

"  Sweetheart,  I  touch  thy  brow; 
Sweetheart,  I  kiss  thee  now; — 
Sweetheart — " 

But  Rohab  dashed  the  pleading  lute  aside, 
And  ended  all  the  lay's  soft  amorousness 
To  clasp  her  in  his  arms,  and  kiss  her  lips 
And  brow  and  bosom.     Dearer  than  his  fame 
Or  land  or  people  was  his  love. 

The  clang 
Of  armor  and  the  sound  of  steps  in  haste 
Broke  through  the  monarch's  dream.    A  hand  in  mail 
Tore  roughly  at  the  silks  of  Samarcand 
Which  veiled  the  entrance  to  that  nest  of  bliss. 

Still  in  each  other's  arms,  but  with  embrace 
Half  loosened  in  amaze  that  one  should  dare 
Invade  that  paradise,  the  lovers  looked 
With  startled  eyes  as  through  the  portal  came 


THE    SORROW    OF    ROIIAR  25Q- 

Isak,  doom-bearing";  and  on  Lutra's  cheek 
Instinctive  presage  turned  love's  blushes  pale. 
On  Rohal.i's  brow  the  cloud  of  mighty  wrath 
Swelled  black  as  midnight  tempest. 

"  \\'herefore  this?  ' 
He  cried.     "  Is  Rohab  counted  now  so  light 
His  servants  seek  his  face  unbidden?" 

Word 
There  was  not  in  reply;  but  Tsak's  sword 
Hissed  in  the  air,  and  leaped  with  burning  flash 
Downward  on  Lutra's  neck,  as  lightning  falls 
Upon  a  lotus.     Her  fair  head,  with  all 
Its  wealth  of  hair  shining  and  richly  brown 
Like  melon  seeds,  its  eyes  of  topaz,  lips 
Like  twin  pomegranate  blooms,  its  cheeks  as  smooth 
As  a  tlute's  note,  and  all  that  loveliness 
Had  caught  the  heart  of  Rohab  as  a  snare 
Tangles  the  falcon  in  a  coil  of  death, 
Fell,  changed  to  thing  of  horror,  drenched  in  blood, 
A.nd  beautiful  no  more. 

\\'ith  cry  where  rage 
Fought  mightily  with  grief,  up  Rohab  sprang, 
The  rubies  on  his  robe  outmatched  in  red 
By  blood  drops;  while  his  hand  sought  for  his  sword, 
But  found  it  not. 

"  Thine  enemies,"  in  taunt 
Cried  Isak,  "  at  thy  very  gates  set  foot. 
And  dallying  with  his  love,  swordless  is  found 
Rohab  the  mighty !     Slay  not  me,  O  king. 
Who  am  a  warrior,  with  a  hand  perfumed 
By  playing  with  thy  lady's  locks!     \Anien  thou 


260  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

Again  art  Rohab,  mine  own  blade  I  lend 
Till  thou  avenge  this  insult  on  my  head. 
Now,  save  thy  people !  " 

All  the  dancing  girls, 
Huddled  as  sheep  crowd  when  the  wolf  is  come, 
Clustered  around,  but  dared  not  speak  or  cry. 
At  Rohab's  feet  the  head  that  had  been  she 
Lay  white  and  staring  eyed,  ghastly.     The  king 
Set  his  teeth  hard;  his  eyes  W'Cre  terrible; 
Gray  his  swart  cheeks.    An  instant  as  clocks  count, 
But  space  how  long  to  their  strained  souls!  he  stood 
Immovable. 

"  So  be  it !     Go  before." 

Without  one  backward  glance  to  where  she  lay 
Whom  ht  had  loved,  he  followed  Isak  forth. 

III. 

As  the  simoon  which  rushes  frantic  forth 

To  blast  and  blight;  as  the  fell  swooping  wave 

An  earthquake  hurls  upon  the  shuddering  shore; 

As  the  dread  sword  in  Azrael's  awful  hand; — 

So  on  his  foes  fell  Rohab.     All  before 

Was  pride;  behind  was  shame.     Before  was  strength, 

Behind  was  death.     An  all-consuming  fire 

He  ravaged;  and  of  twice  ten  tribes,  which  bound 

Themselves  in  oath  blood  consecrated  sword 

Nor  death  should  break  their  bond  nor  stay  their  way 

Till  they  had  conquered  Rohab,  not  one  man 

Was  left  to  lift  the  spear.     Festered  with  blood 

Was  the  wide  desert,  and  the  vultures,  gorged, 

Even  the  scent  of  carrion  could  not  stir. 


THE   SORROW   OF   ROIIAB  26l 

His  wratli  was  like  a  god's.     The  leaping  llanics 

Of  thirty  cities  lighted  Lutra's  ghost 

The  darksome  way  it  went.     Drunken  with  blood 

And  mad  with  rage,  the  burning  lust  to  kill 

And  kill  and  kill  devoured  his  very  soul. 

Since  she  was  dead,  it  stung  him  to  the  quick 

That  any  dared  be  yet  alive  !    He  slew 

And  slew  and  slew,  till  there  were  none  to  slay; 

Till  trampled  in  the  blood-drenched  dust  lay  prone 

The  might  of  all  the  tribes. 

Ever  the  king, 
Fought  with  the  meanest,  with  his  warriors  fared: 
And  once,  leading  himself  a  band  that  stole 
To  falJ  upon  a  village  unaware, 
While  in  the  thicket  crouched  they,  came  a  girl, 
Barefooted  and  barcarmed,  a  peasant  maid, 
Singing  as  day  went  down  a  song  of  love. 
Twirling  her  distaff  as  with  shining  eyes 
She  looked  across  the  plain  like  one  who  waits: 

"Sings  the  nightingale  to  the  rose: 

'  Without  thy  love  I  die ! 

Sweetheart,  regard  my  cry !  * 
Sings  the  fountain  as  it  flows: 

*0  lotus,  comfort  give; 

Sweetheart,  for  thee  I  live!* 
Oh,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  dear 
I  love  thee,  and  I  wait  thee  here ! 

"  Sings  the  cyclamen  to  the  bee: 
*  In  love  alone  is  rest; 
Sweetheart,  come  to  my  breast.* 


202  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Sings  the  moon  on  high  to  the  sea: 

'  I   shine  for  thee  alone; 

Sweetheart,  I  am  thine  own.' 
Oh,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  dear, 
I  love  thee,  and  I  w^ait  thee  here !  " 

And  Rohab,  cut  to  heart,  drew  back  his  band, 

Sparing  the  village  for  the  sake  of  her, 

And  for  the  song  whose  murmuring  burden  brought 

The  memory  of  another  song  too  sweet, 

Too  sad  to  bear. 

Ever  at  Rohab's  side, 
Where  battle's  fiercest  eddies  swirled  and  raged. 
With  plumes  of  bloody  foam  and  dreadful  wrack 
Of  broken  bodies,  trampled  man  and  horse, 
Tall  spear,  proud  helm,  and  vaunting  blazoned  shield 
All  ownerless  despite  their  boast,  Isak 
Like  an  avenging  angel  fought,  with  sword 
That  bulwarked  Roha1).     Thrice  he  thrust  himself 
Between  the  king  and  blows  that  would  have  slain; 
Once  and  again,  watching  for  treachery, 
He  gave  the  warning,  saved  the  king  from  foes 
Disguised  like  his  own  guards,  and  creeping  closCc 
Yet  ever  Rohab,  like  one  hating  Hfe, 
Still  held  his  peace,  and  gave  no  word  of  praise. 

IV. 

So  wore  it  till  an  end  was  made  of  war, 

And  swords  were  sheathed  for  very  lack  of  foes. 

Prostrate  on  earth,  Rohab,  within  his  tent, 
Sorrowed  for  Lutra,  hearing  cries  of  joy 


THE   SORROW    OF   ROIIAB  263 

From  all  the  host,  and  stir  of  those  who  shared 
The  spoil,  and  noise  of  those  dividing  slaves, 
And  songs  of  those  who  revelled,  while  each  cry 
Was  as  a  poisoned  dart  which  stung  his  soul 
With  festering  wound. 

Then  came  the  splendid  day 
The  host  gave  thanks  for  victory.     The  plain 
Sparkled  with  armor  like  the  sunlit  sea, 
And  glowed  with  colors  like  a  sunset  sky. 
From  every  tent-top  pennants  fluttered  gay, 
With  brave  devices  wrought  in  red  and  gold. 
Orange  and  azure,  green  and  amethyst — 
Dragons  and  monsters,  crescent,  stars,  and  all 
The  arrogant  emblaze  of  heraldry. 
Like  lithe  and  glistening  water-snakes  at  play, 
lliat  double  coil  on  coil,  twist  fold  on  fold. 
In  brave  array  the  squadrons  wound  and  wheeled. 
The  air  all  palpitant  with  beat  of  drum 
And  blare  of  trumpets,  cymbals,  horns,  and  shawms 
Thicker  and  richer  than  the  butterflies 
Above  the  flower-set  meads  of  Gulistan 
A  thousand  banners  waving  flew,  and  plumes 
W^ere  as  the  thistle  down  that  floats  and  flies 
Where  white  wild  asses  feed  by  Tigris'  bank. 

So  came  the  army,  marching  troop  by  troop, 
Where  Rohab  sat  in  state  to  judge  his  foes 
And  recompense  his  heroes. 

After  shouts 
Which  made  the  banners  shake,  and  joyful  noise 
Of  countless  instruments,  there  came  at  last 
A  silence.     One  by  one,  war-worn  and  grim, 


264  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Those  leaders  of  the  tribes  the  sword  had  spared 
In  bitter  mockery  of  mercy,  heard 
Their  doom  of  torture  with  cahii  front  and  eyes 
Unquailing,  prouder  in  defeat  and  shame 
Than  even  in  their  days  of  power  and  pomp. 
Then  one  by  one  the  warriors  of  the  king 
Received  their  meed  of  richly  won  rewards 
Of  gold  or  glory,  with  the  word  of  praise 
From  Rohab's  lips,  most  precious  boon  of  all. 
To  every  troop  its  tale  of  spoil  was  told, 
Loot  of  the  tribes  in  gold  and  gear  and  gems 
And  slaves. 

Last  of  the  host,  before  the  throne 
Knelt  Isak. 

On  him  Rohab  looked,  no  word 
Loosing  his  firm-set  lips,  while  Isak  drew 
His  sword  from  scabbard. 

"  Now,  O  king,  '  he  said, 
"  That  thou  again  art   Rohab,  prince  of  all 
Who  walk  under  the  stars,  I  keep  my  vow. 
Take  mine  own  sword  and  smite." 

But  Rohab  stooped, 
And  raised  him  to  his  feet;  from  his  own  side 

Ungirt  the  gem-encrusted  scabbard. 

"  Nay," 

He  answered,  "  sword  for  sword.  I  give  thee  mine, 
That  all  men  thus  may  know  whom,  most  the  king 
Delights  to  honor." 

All  the  circling  host 
Rent  the  high  heavens  with  shouting,  while  the  king 
With  h]f  own  hands  did  on  the  royal  sword 
To  Isak's  thigh. 


THE   SORROW   OF   ROIIAB  26$ 

"  Rohab  the  king,"  he  said, 
"  Honors  thy  hardihood,  which  did  not  spare 
For  fear  of  death  or  love  of  self  to  slay 
His  dearest,  even  in  his  arms,  to  save 
The  land.     Rohab  the  king  commends  thee;  gives 
Thee  highest  grace  and  praise.     Rohab  the  man — " 

He  paused  for  one  fierce  breath,  and  all  the  host 
Was  still,  awed  by  his  wrath;  l)iit  Isak.  pale, 
Faced  him  unflinching,  though  he  read  his  doom 
In  the  king's  blazing  eyes. 

"  Rohab  the  man," 
The  bitter  words  ran  on,  "  cannot  forget 
How    Lutra  died.     Seek  her  in   paradise, 
Where  thou  hast  sent  her;  say  that  her  lord's  woe 
Is  as  his  valor,  matchless  among  men. 
And  not  to  be  assuaged.     Rohab  the  king 
Delights  to  honor  thee.     Rohab  the  mar 
Avenges  Lutra's  death,  and  smites!  " 

As  fleet 
As  light  the  blade  that  had  been  Isak's  flashed 
Downward.     Nor  Lutra's  blood,  nor  blood  of  all 
The  foes  of  Rohab  it  had  drunk,  could  glut 
Its  thirst  insatiate  as  it  leaped  in  greed 
To  drink  its  master's. 

Then,  as  Isak's  head 
Fell  as  her  loxxly  head  had  fallen,  death 
Were  not  more  silent  than  the  awe-struck  host. 

But  Rohab  hid  his  face,  and  wept — for  her. 


266  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"  Praise  God !  "  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  labored,  long  and  well; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period. 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  God !  " 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 

Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  "  Well  done; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son : 

*'  As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 

Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great  way. 

'*  This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "  Would  God  that  I 

Might  praise  Him,  that  great  way,  and  die!" 

Night  passed,  day  shone, 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway, 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 


THE   BOY    ANT)   THE   ANGEL  267 

God  said  in  heaven,  "  Nor  day  nor  night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  deHght." 

Then  Gabriel,  Hke  a  rainbow's  l)irth, 
Spread  liis  wings  and  sank  to  earth; 

Entered,  in  tlesh,  the  empty  cell, 

Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman  well; 

And  morning,  evening,  noon,  and  night, 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite. 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew : 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue: 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay : 

And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will;   to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "  A  praise  is  in  mine  ear; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear: 

"  So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 

New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool  go. 

"  Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise." 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off  fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'Twas  Easter  Day :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 


268  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight, 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite: 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer: 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear. 
He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here. 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned. 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"  I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here;    I  did  not  well. 

"  Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere. 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak;    it  dropped— 
Creation's  chorus  stopped ! 

"  Go  back  and  praise  again 
The  early  way,  while  I  remain. 

"  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain, 
Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain. 

"  Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  bov  1  " ' 


CHIQUITA  26q 


Theocrite  grew  old  at  home; 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died : 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 


CHIQUITA 

FRANCIS    BRET    HARTE 

Beautiful !    Sir,  you  may  say  so.    Thar  isn't  her  match 

in  the  county; 
Is  thar,  old  gal, — Chicjuita,  my  darling,  my  beauty? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir, — thar's  velvet !    Whoa  !   steady, 

— ah,  will  you^  you  vixen ! 
Whoa!    I  say.    Jack,  trot  her  out;    let  the  gentleman 

look  at  her  paces. 

Morgan! — she  ain't   nothing  else,  and   I've  got  the 

papers  to  prove  it. 
Sired  by  Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars 

won't  buy  her. 
Briggs   of   Tuolumne    owned    her.      Did   you    know 

Briggs  of  Tuolumne? 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains 

down  in  'Frisco? 

Hedn't  no  savey,  hed  Briggs.    Thar,  Jack !   that'll  do, 

— quit  that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  do.  when  she's  got  her  work 

cut  out  before  her. 


2/0  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

Hosses  is  bosses,  you  know,  and  likewise,  too,  jockeys 

is  jockeys: 
And  'tain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a 

boss  bas  got  in  bim. 

Know  tbe  old  ford  on  tbe  Fork,  tbat  nearly  got  Flani- 

gan's  leaders? 
Nasty  in  dayligbt,  you  bet,  and  a  migbty  rougb  ford 

in  low  water ! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  tbat  me  and  tbe  Jedge 

and  bis  nevey 
Struck  for  tbat  ford  in  tbe  nigbt,  in  tbe  rain,  and  tbe 

water  all  round  us; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  tbe  gulcb,  and  Rattlesnake  Creek 

jest  a-bilin'. 
Not  a  plank  left  in  tbe  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on 

tbe  river. 
I  bad  tbe  gray,  and  tbe  Jedge  bad  bis  roan,  and  bis 

nevey,  Cbiquita; 
And  after  us  trundled  tbe  rocks  jest  loosed  from  tbe 

top  of  tbe  canon. 

Lickity,   lickity,   switcb,   we   came   to  tbe   ford,   and 

Cbiquita 
Buckled  rigbt  down  to  ber  work,  and,  afore  I  could 

yell  to  ber  rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  tbe  ford,  and  tbere  was  tbe  Jedge 

and  me  standing, 
And  twelve-bundred  dollars  of  boss-flesb  afloat,  and 

a-driftin'  to  tbunderl 


CARCASSONNE  27 1 

Would  ye  b'Heve  it?  That  night,  that  hoss,  that  'ar 
filly,  Chicjuita, 

Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet 
and  dripping: 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  har- 
ness. 

Jest  as  she  swam  the  h'ork, — that  hoss,  that  'ar  filly, 
Chiquila. 

That's  what  1  call  a  hoss!    and — What  did  you  say? 

— Oh,  the  nevey? 
Drownded,  I  reckon,— leastways,  he  never  kem  back 

to  deny  it. 
Ye  see  the  denied  fool  had  no  seat,  ye  couldn't  have 

made  him  a  rider; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will  be  boys,  and  bosses — 

well,  bosses  is  bosses! 


CARCASSONNE 

GUSTAVE    NADAUD 
(Translated  by  Francis  F.  Browne) 

I'm  an  old  man;    I'm  sixty  years; 

I've  worked  hard  all  my  life, 
Yet  never  have  gained  my  heart's  desire, 

With  all  my  toil  and  strife. 
Ah,  well  I  see  that  here  below 

There  is  perfect  joy  for  none; 
My  dearest  wish  is  unfulfilled, — • 

I  have  never  seen  Carcassonne ! 


272  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

**  The  city  lies  almost  in  sight, 

Beyond  the  mountains  bhie; 
But  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  needs 

Five  weary  leagues  pursue. 
And  then,  alas,  the  journey  back! 

I  know  not  how  'twere  done : 
The  ripening  vintage  fears  the  frost,—* 

I  shall  never  see  Carcassonne! 

**  *Tis  said  that  in  that  favored  place 

All  days  are  holidays. 
With  happy  folks  in  robes  of  white 

Passing  along  the  ways; 
'Tis  said  there  are  castles  there  as  gr,  .<i<i 

As  those  of  Babylon, 
And  a  Bishop  and  two  Generals  ther  , — 

I  shall  never  know  Carcassonne ! 

"  The  Vicar  a  hundred  times  is  riafhi  — 

We  are  weak  and  foolish  all; 
And  in  his  sermon  he  teaches  us 

That  ambition  makes  men  fall.     .     , 
But  yet  if  I  could  somehow  find 

Two  days  under  Autumn's  su  1, 
My  God!   but  I  would  die  cont/;nt 

After  having  seen  Carcassonne ! 

"I  ask  Thy  pardon,  gracious  Cod, 
If  my  prayer  offendeth  Th  ,e  ! 
We  strive  to  peer  beyond  our  sight, 
In  age  as  in  infancy.    -    .    . 


THE   LAST   FIGH'"  273 

My  wife  and  son,  they  both  have  been 

As  far  as  to  Narbonne; 
My  godson  has  seen  Perpignan, — 

And  I've  never  seen  Carcassonne !  " 

An  aged  peasant  thus  complained, 

Bowed  down  with  toil  and  care. 
I  said  to  him.  "  Arise,  my  friend; 

Together  we'll  go  there." 
We  set  out  on  the  morrow  morn; 

But  our  journey  was  scarce  begun 
When  the  old  man  died  upon  the  road, — 

He  had  never  seen  Carcassonne! 


THE   LAST  FIGHT 

LEWIS    F.    TOOKER 

That  night  I  think  that  no  one  slept; 

No  bells  were  struck,  no  whistle  blew. 
And  when  the  watch  was  changed  I  crept 

From  man  to  man  of  all  the  crew 
With  whispered  orders.     Though  we  swept 

Through  roaring  seas,  we  hushed  the  clock, 

And  muffled  every  clanking  block. 

So  when  one  fool,  unheeding,  cried 
Some  petty  order,  straight  I  ran, 

And  threw  him  sprawling  o'er  the  side. 
All  life  is  but  a  narrow  span: 

It  little  matters  that  one  bide 
A  moment  longer  here,  for  all 
Fare  the  same  road,  whate'er  befall. 


274  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

But  vain  my  care;    for  when  the  day 
Broke  gray  and  wet,  we  saw  the  foe 

But  half  a  stormy  league  away. 

By  noon  we  saw  his  black  bows  throw 

Five  fathoms  high  a  wall  of  spray; 
A  little  more,  we  heard  the  drum, 
And  knew  that  our  last  hour  had  come. 

All  day  our  crew  had  lined  the  side 
With  grim,  set  faces,  muttering; 

And  once  a  boy  (the  first  that  died) 
One  of  our  wild  songs  tried  to  sing: 

But  when  their  first  shot  missed  us  wide, 
A  dozen  sprang  above  our  rail, 
Shook  fists,  and  roared  a  cursing  hail. 

Thereon,  all  hot  for  war,  they  bound 

Their  heads  with  cool,  wet  bands,  and  drew 

Their  belts  close,  and  their  keen  blades  ground; 
Then,  at  the  next  gun's  pufif  of  blue, 

We  set  the  grog  cup  on  its  round. 

And  pledged  for  life  or  pledged  for  death 
Our  last  sigh  of  expiring  breath. 

Laughing,  our  brown  young  singer  fell 

As  their  next  shot  crashed  through  our  rail; 

Then  'twixt  us  flashed  the  fire  of  hell. 
That  shattered  spar  and  riddled  sail. 

What  ill  we  wrought  we  could  not  tell; 
But  blood-red  all  their  scuppers  dripped 
When  their  black  hull  to  starboard  dipped. 


THE   LAST   FIGHT  2/5 

Nine  times  I  saw  our  helinsnian  fall, 

And  nine  times  sent  new  men,  who  took 
The  whirling  wheel  as  at  death's  call; 

But  when  I  saw  the  last  one  look 
From  sky  to  deck,  then,  reeling,  crawl 

Under  the  shattered  rail  to  die, 

I  knew^  where  I  should  surely  lie. 

I  could  not  send  more  men  to  stand 

And  turn  in  idleness  the  wheel 
Until  they  took  death's  beckoning  hand, 

While  others,  meeting  steel  with  steel, 
Flamed  out  their  lives — an  eager  band. 

Cheers  on  their  lips,  and  in  their  eyes 

The  goal-rapt  look  of  high  emprise. 

So  to  the  wheel  I  went.     Like  bees 

I  heard  the  shot  go  darting  by; 
There  came  a  trembling  in  my  knees. 

And  black  spots  whirled  about  the  sky. 
I  thought  of  things  beyond  the  seas — 

The  little  town  where  1  was  born. 

And  swallows  twittering  in  the  morn. 

A  wounded  creature  drew  him  where 

I  grasped  the  wheel,  and  begged  to  steefe 
It  mattered  not  how  he  might  fare 

The  little  time  he  had  for  fear; 
So  if  I  left  this  to  his  care 

He,  too.  might  serve  us  yet,  he  said. 

He  died  there  while  I  shook  my  head. 


27&  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

I  would  not  fall  so  like  a  dog, 

My  helpless  back  turned  to  the  foe; 

So  when  his  great  hulk,  like  a  log, 
Came  surging  past  our  quarter,  lo ! 

With  helm  hard  down,  straight  through  the  fog 
Of  battle  smoke,  and  luffing  wide 
I  sent  our  sharp  bow  through  his  side. 

The  willing  waves  came  rushing  in 
The  ragged  entrance  that  we  gave; 

Like  snakes  I  heard  their  green  coils  spin 
Up,  up,  around  our  floating  grave; 

But  dauntless  still,  amid  a  din 

Of  clashing  steel  and  battle  shout, 

We  rushed  to  drive  their  boarders  out. 

Around  me  in  a  closing  ring 

My  grim-faced  foemen  darkly  drew; 

Then,  sweeter  than  the  lark  in  spring. 

Loud  rang  our  blades;    the  red  sparks  flew. 

Twice,  thrice,  I  felt  the  sudden  sting 

Of  some  keen  stroke;    then,  swinging  fair, 
My  own  clave  more  than  empty  air. 

The  fight  went  raging  past  me  when 
My  good  blade  cleared  a  silent  place; 

Then  in  a  ring  of  fallen  men 

I  paused  to  breathe  a  little  space. 

Elsewhere  the  deck  roared  like  a  glen 
When  mountain  torrents  meet;   the  fray 
A  moment  then  seemed  far  away. 


THE   LAST  FIGHT  277 

The  barren  sea  swept  to  the  sky; 

The  empty  sky  dipped  to  the  sea; 
Such  utter  waste  coukl  scarcely  lie 

Beyond  death's  starved  periphery. 
Only  one  living  thing  went  by; 

Far  overhead  an  ominous  bird 

Rode  down  the  gale  with  wings  unstirred. 

Windward  I  saw  the  billows  swing 

Dark  crests  to  beckon  others  on 
To  see  our  end;   then,  hurrying 

To  reach  us  ere  we  should  be  gone, 
They  came,  like  tigers  mad  to  fling 

Their  jostling  bodies  on  our  ships, 

And  snarl  at  us  with  foaming  lips. 

There  was  no  time  to  spare :  a  wave 
E'en  then  broke  growling  at  my  feet; 

One  last  look  to  the  sky  I  gave, 

Then  sprang  my  eager  foes  to  meet. 

Loud  rang  the  fray  above  our  grave — 
I  felt  the  vessel  downward  reel 
As  my  last  thrust  met  thrusting  steel. 

I  heard  a  roaring  in  my  ears; 

A  green  wall  pressed  against  my  eyes; 
Down,  down  I  passed;   the  vanished  years 

I  saw  in  mimicry  arise. 
Yet  even  then  I  felt  no  fears, 

And  with  my  last  expiring  breath 

My  past  rose  up  and  mocked  at  death. 


278  -DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

INSTANS  TYRANNUS 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 

One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course — • 

For,  what  was  his  force? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate; 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  no^,  curse, 

As  his  lot  might  be  worse. 

"  Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand ! 

For  obscurity  helps  him,  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All  in  vain !    Gold  and  jewels  I  threw. 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue; 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh. 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth: 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 
To  his  heart,  did  I  press : 
Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize! 
No  such  booty  as  these. 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS  ^79 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me,  in  person  or  pelf, 

What  he  owes  me  himself! 

No:    I  could  not  but  smile  thro'  my  chafe: 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

■ — Thro'  minuteness,  to  wit. 

Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face: 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain. 

And,  "  no !  "  I  admonished  myself, 

"  Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen's  in  that ! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot. 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  In  debate ! 

But  the  small  turns  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you, — that  is  the  thing! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king? 

Tlio'  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,  'tis  well  worth !  " 

So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  breajt 

Ran  my  fires  for  his  sake- 


28o  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Overhead,  did  my  thunder  combine 
With  my  under-ground  mine : 
Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 
To  enjoy  the  event. 

When  sudden    ,    .    .    how  think  ye,  the  end? 

Did  I  say  "  without  hiend?  " 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest ! 

Do  you  see !    Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed! 

— So,  I  was  afraid! 


EMMA  AND   EGINHARD 

HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW 

When  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charlemagne, 
In  the  free  schools  of  Aix,  how  kings  should  reign. 
And  with  them  taught  the  children  of  the  poor 
How  subjects  should  be  patient  and  endure, 
He  touched  the  lips  of  some,  as  best  befit. 
With  honey  from  the  hives  of  Holy  Writ; 
Others  intoxicated  with  the  wine 
Of  ancient  history,  sweet  but  less  divine; 


EMMA   AND    EGINHARD  28l 

Some  with  the  wholesome  fruits  of  granmiar  fed; 
Others  witli  mysteries  of  the  stars  o'erhead, 
That  hang  suspended  in  the  vaulted  sky 
Like  lamps  in  some  fair  palace  vast  and  high. 

In  sooth,  it  was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see 
That  Saxon  monk,  with  hood  and  rosary, 
With  inkhorn  at  his  belt,  and  pen  and  book, 
And  mingled  love  and  reverence  in  his  look, 
Or  hear  the  cloister  and  the  court  repeat 
The  measured  footfalls  of  his  sandalled  feet, 
Or  watch  him  with  the  pupils  of  his  school, 
Gentle  of  speech,  but  absolute  of  rule. 

Among  them,  always  earliest  in  his  place, 
Was  Eginhard,  a  youth  of  Prankish  race, 
Whose  face  was  bright  with  flashes  that  forerun 
The  splendors  of  a  yet  unrisen  sun. 
To  him  all  things  were  possible,  and  seemed 
Not  what  he  had  accomplished,  but  had  dreamed, 
And  what  were  tasks  to  others  were  his  play, 
The  pastime  of  an  idle  holiday. 

Smaragdo,  Abbot  of  St.  IMichael's.  said, 
With  many  a  shrug  and  shaking  of  the  head, 
Surely  some  demon  must  possess  the  lad. 
Who  showed  more  wit  than  ever  schoolboy  had, 
And  learned  his  Trivium  thus  without  the  rod; 
But  Alcuin  said  it  was  the  grace  of  God. 

Thus  he  grew  up,  in  Logic  point-device. 
Perfect  in  Grammar,  and  in  Rhetoric  nice; 
Science  of  Numbers.  Geometric  art. 
And  lore  of  Stars,  and  ]Music  knew  by  heart; 


282  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

A  Minnesinger,  long  before  the  times 

Of  those  who  sang  their  love  in  Suabian  rhymes. 

The  Emperor,  when  he  heard  this  good  report 
Of  Eginhard  much  buzzed  about  the  court, 
Said  to  himself,  "  This  stripling  seems  to  be 
Purposely  sent  into  the  world  for  me; 
He  shall  become  my  scribe,  and  shall  be  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  whereby  the  world  is  ruled." 
Thus  did  the  gentle  Eginhard  attain 
To  honor  in  the  court  of  Charlemagne; 
Became  the  sovereign's  favorite,  his  right  hand, 
So  that  his  fame  was  great  in  all  the  land, 
And  all  men  loved  him  for  his  modest  grace 
And  comeliness  of  figure  and  of  face. 

An  inmate  of  the  palace,  yet  recluse, 
A  man  of  books,  yet  sacred  from  abuse 
Among  the  armed  knights  with  spur  on  heel, 
The  tramp  of  horses  and  the  clang  of  steel; 
And  as  the  Emperor  promised  he  was  schooled 
In  all  the  arts  by  which  the  world  is  ruled. 
But  the  one  art  supreme,  whose  law  is  fate, 
The  Emperor  never  dreamed  of  till  too  late. 

Home  from  her  convent  to  the  palace  came 
The  lovely  Princess  Emma,  whose  sweet  name, 
Whispered  by  seneschal  or  sung  by  bard, 
Had  often  touched  the  soul  of  Eginhard. 
He  saw  her  from  his  window,  as  in  state 
She  came,  by  knights  attended  through  the  gate; 
He  saw  her  at  the  banquet  of  that  day, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  beautiful  as  May; 


EMMA   AND   EGINHARD  283 

He  saw  her  in  the  garden,  as  she  strayed 
Among  the  flowers  of  summer  with  her  maid, 
And  said  to  him,  "O  Eginhard,  disclose 
The  meaning  and  the  mystery  of  the  rose"; 
And  treml)hng  he  made  answer :  "  In  good  sooth; 
Its  mystery  is  love,  its  meaning  youth !  " 

How  can  I  tell  the  signals  and  the  signs 
By  which  one  heart  another  heart  divines? 
How  can  I  tell  the  many  thousand  ways 
By  which  it  keeps  the  secret  it  betrays? 

O  mystery  of  love  !     O  strange  romance ! 
Among  the  Peers  and  Paladins  of  France, 
Shining  in  steel,  and  prancing  on  gay  steeds, 
Noble  by  birth,  yet  nobler  by  great  deeds. 
The  Princess  Emma  had  no  words  nor  looks 
But  for  this  clerk,  this  man  of  thought  and  books. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came;  the  stalks 

Of  lilies  blackened  in  the  garden  walks; 

The  leaves  fell,  russet-golden   and  blood-red, 

Love-letters  thought  the  poet  fancy-led, 

Or  Jove  descending  in  a  shower  of  gold 

Into  the  lap  of  Danae  of  old; 

For  poets  cherish  many  a  strange  conceit, 

And  love  transmutes  all  nature  by  its  heat. 

No  more  the  garden  lessons,  nor  the  dark 
And  hurried  meetings  in  the  twilight  park; 
But  now  the  studious  lamp,  and  the  delights 
Of  firesides  in  the  silent  winter  nights. 
And  watching  from  his  window  hour  by  hour 
The  light  tb^t  burned  in  Princess  Emma's  tower. 


284  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

At  length  one  night,  while  musing  by  the  fire, 

O'ercome  at  last  by  his  insane  desire, 

For  what  will  reckless  love  not  do  and  dare? — 

He  crossed  the  court,  and  climbed  the  winding  stair, 

With  some  feigned  message  in  the  Emperor's  name; 

But  when  he  to  the  lady's  presence  came 

He  knelt  down  at  her  feet,  until  she  laid 

Her  hand  upon  him,  like  a  naked  blade, 

And  whispered  in  his  ear :    "  Arise,  Sir  Knight, 

To  my  heart's  level,  O  my  heart's  delight." 

And  there  he  lingered  till  the  crowing  cock. 
The  Alectryon  of  the  farmyard  and  the  flock, 
Sang  his  aubade  with  lusty  voice  and  clear. 
To  tell  the  sleeping  world  that  dawn  was  near. 
And  then  they  parted;   but  at  parting,  lol 
They  saw  the  palace  courtyard  white  with  snow, 
And,  placid  as  a  nun,  the  moon  on  high 
Gazing  from  cloudy  cloisters  of  the  sky. 
"  Alas !  "  he  said,  "how  hide  the  fatal  line 
Of  footprints  leading  from  thy  door  to  mine, 
And  none  returning !  "     Ah,  he  little  knew 
What  woman's  wit,  when  put  to  proof,  can  do ! 

That  night  the  Emperor,  sleepless  with  the  cares 
And  troubles  that  attend  on  state  affairs. 
Had  risen  before  the  dawn,  and  musing  gazed 
Into  the  silent  night,  as  one  amazed 
To  see  the  calm  that  reigned  o'er  all  supreme. 
When  his  own  reign  was  but  a  troubled  dream. 
The  moon  lit  up  the  gables  capped  with  snow, 
And  the  white  roofs,  and  half  the  court  below. 


EMMA   AND    EGINHARD  28$ 

And  he  beheld  a  form,  that  seemed  to  cower 
Beneath  a  burden,  come  from  Emma's  tower, — 
A  woman,  wlio  upon  her  shoulders  bore 
Clerk  Eginhard  to  his  own  private  door, 
And  then  returned  in  haste,  l)ut  still  essayed 
To  tread  the  footprints  she  herself  had  made; 
And  as  she  passed  across  the  lighted  sjiace. 
The  Emperor  saw  his  daughter  Emma's  face! 

He  started  not;  he  did  not  speak  or  moan. 
But  seemed  as  one  who  hath  been  turned  to  stone; 
And  stood  there  like  a  statue,  nor  awoke 
Out  of  his  trance  of  pain,  till  morning  broke, 
Till  the  stars  faded,  and  the  moon  went  down, 
And  o'er  the  towers  and  steeples  of  the  town 
Came  the  gray  daylight;  then  the  sun,  who  took 
The  empire  of  the  world  with  sovereign  look, 
Suffusing  w^ith  a  soft  and  golden  glow 
All  the  dead  landscape  in  its  shroud  of  snow, 
Touching  with  flame  the  tapering  chapel  spires, 
Windows  and  roofs,  and  smoke  of  household  fires, 
And  kindling  park  and  palace  as  he  came; 
The  stork's  nest  on  the  chimney  seemed  in  flame. 
And  thus  he  stood  till  Eginhard  appeared. 
Demure  and  modest  with  his  comely  beard 
And  flowing  flaxen  tresses,  come  to  ask, 
As  was  his  wont,  the  day's  appointed  task 
The  Emperor  looked  upon  him  with  a  smile, 
And  gently  said:    "My  son,  wait  yet  awhile; 
This  hour  my  council  meets  upon  some  great 
And  very  urgent  business  of  the   state. 
Come  back  within  the  hour.     On  thy  return 
The  work  appointed  for  thee  shalt  thou  learn." 


286  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Having  dismissed  this  gallant  Troubadour, 
He  summoned  straight  his  council,  and  secure 
And  steadfast  in  his  purpose,  from  the  throne 
All  the  adventure  of  the  night  made  known; 
Then  asked  for  sentence;  and  with  eager  breath 
Some  answered  banishment,  and  others  death. 

Then  spake  the  king :  "  Your  sentence  is  not  mine; 

Life  is  the  gift  of  God,  and  is  divine; 

Nor  from  these  palace  walls  shall  one  depart 

Who  carries  such  a  secret  in  his  heart; 

My  better  judgment  points  another  way. 

Good  Alcuin,  I  remember  how  one  day 

When  my  Pepino  asked  you,  *  What  are  men?  ' 

You  wrote  upon  his  tablets  with  your  pen, 

*  Guests  of  the  grave  and  travellers  that  pass ! ' 

This  being  true  of  all  men,  we,  alas ! 

Being  all  fashioned  of  the  selfsame  dust, 

Let  us  be  merciful  as  well  as  just; 

This  passing  traveller,  who  hath  stolen  away 

The  brightest  jewel  of  my  crown  to-day, 

Shall  of  himself  the  precious  gem  restore; 

By  giving  it,  I  make  it  mine  once  more. 

Over  those  fatal  footprints  I  will  throw 

My  ermine  mantle  like  another  snow." 

Then  Eginhard  was  summoned  to  the  hall, 
And  entered,  and  in  presence  of  them  all. 
The  Emperor  said :   "  My  son.  for  thou  to  me 
Hast  been  a  son,  and  evermore  shalt  be. 
Long  hast  thou  served  thy  sovereign,  and  thy  zeal 
Pleads  to  me  with  importunate  appeal, 


THE    hXLLAD   OF   JUDAS    ISCARlOT  28^ 

While  I  have  been  forgetful  to  requite 

Thy  service  and  affection  as  was  right. 

But  now  the  hour  is  come,  when  I,  thy  Lord, 

Will  crown  thy  love  with  such  supreme  reward, 

A  gift  so  precious  kings  have  striven  in  vain 

To  win  it  from  the  hands  of  Charlemagne." 

Then  sprang  the  portals  of  the  chamber  wide, 
And  Princess  Emma  entered,  in  the  pride 
Of  birth  and  beauty,  that  in  part  o'ercame 
The  conscious  terror  and  the  blush  of  shame. 
And  the  good  Emperor  rose  up  from  his  throne, 
And  taking  her  white  hand  within  his  own 
Placed  it  in  Eginhard's,  and  said :    "  My  son, 
This  is  the  gift  thy  constant  zeal  hath  w'on; 
Thus  I  repay  the  royal  debt  I  owe, 
And  cover  up  the  footprints  in  the  snow." 


THE   BALLAD    OF   JUDAS    ISCARlOT 

ROBERT    BUCHANAN 

Tw-as  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  in  the  Field  of  Blood; 
•Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Lscariot 

Beside  the  body  stood. 

Black  was  the  earth  by  night. 

And  black  was  the  sky; 
Black,  black  were  the  broken  clouds, 

Tho'  the  red  Moon  went  by. 


jyy  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Strangled  and  dead  lay  there; 

*Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Look'd  on  it  in  despair. 

The  breath  of  the  World  came  and  went 

Like  a  sick  man's  in  rest; 
Drop  by  drop  on  the  World's  eyes 

The  dews  fell  cool  and  blest. 

Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  make  a  gentle  moan — 
"  I  will  bury  underneath  the  ground 

My  flesh  and  blood  and  bone. 

"  I  will  bury  deep  beneath  the  soil, 

Lest  mortals  look  thereon, 
And  when  the  wolf  and  raven  come 

The  body  will  be  gone ! 

"  The  stones  of  the  field  are  sharp  as  steet. 

And  hard  and  bold,  God  wot; 
And  I  must  bear  my  body  hence 

Until  I  find  a  spot !  " 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
So  grim,  and  gaunt,  and  gray, 

Rais'd  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot, 
And  carried  it  away. 

And  as  he  bare  it  from  the  field 

Its  touch  was  cold  as  ice, 
And  the  ivory  teeth  within  the  jaw 

Rattled  aloud,  like  dicev 


THE    BALI. AD    OF   JUDAS    ISCARIOT  uSg> 

As  the  soul  of  Jiulas  Iscariot 

Carried  its  load  with  pain, 
The  Eye  of  Heaven,  like  a  lanthorn's  eye, 

Open'd  and  shut  again. 

Half  he  \valk'd,  and  half  he  seem'd 

Lifted  on  the  cold  wind; 
He  did  not  turn,  for  chilly  hands 

Were  pushing  from  behind. 

The  first  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  open  wold, 
And  underneath  were  prickly  whins, 

And  a  wind  that  blew  so  cold. 

The  next  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  a  stagnant  pool, 
And  when  he  threw  the  body  in 

It  floated  light  as  wool. 

He  drew  the  body  on  his  back, 

And  it  was  dripping  chill, 
And  the  next  ])lace  that  he  came  unte 

Was  a  Cross  upon  a  hill. 

.A  Cross  upon  the  windy  hill, 

And  a  Cross  on  either  side, 
Three  skeletons  that  swing  thereon, 

Who  had  been  crucified. 

And  on  the  middle  cross-bar  sat 

A  white  Dove  slumbering; 
Dim  it  sat  in  the  dim  light, 

With  its  head  beneath  its  wing. 


2QO  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

And  underneath  the  middle  Cross 
A  grave  yawn'd  wide  and  vast. 

But  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Shiver'd,  and  glided  past. 

The  fourth  place  that  he  came  unto 

It  was  the  Brig  of  Dread, 
And  the  great  torrents  rushing  down 

Were  deep,  and  swift,  and  red. 

He  dar'd  not  fling  the  body  in 

For  fear  of  faces  dim. 
And  arms  were  wav'd  in  the  wild  water 

To  thrust  it  back  to  him. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Turn'd  from  the  Brig  of  Dread, 

And  the  dreadful  foam  of  the  wild  water 
Had  splash'd  the  body  red. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on 

Upon  an  open  plain, 
And  the  days  went  by  like  blinding  mist, 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  rain. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on, 

All  thro'  the  Wood  of  Woe; 
And  the  nights  went  by  like  moaning  wind. 

And  the  days  like  drifting  snow. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Came  with  a  weary  face — 
Alone,  alone,  and  all  alone, 

Alone  in  a  lonely  place ! 


THE    BALLAD   OF   JUDAS   ISCARIOT  29I 

He  wander'd  east,  he  wander'd  west, 

And  heard  no  human  sound; 
For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears, 

He  wander'd  round  and  round. 

For  months  and  years,  in  grief  and  tears. 

He  walk'd  the  silent  night; 
Then  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Perceiv'd  a  far-off  light. 

A  far-off  light  across  the  waste, 

As  dim  as  dim  might  be, 
That  came  and  went  like  a  lighthouse  gleam 

On  a  black  night  at  sea. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Crawl'd  to  the  distant  gleam; 
And  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  rain  was  blown 

Against  him  with  a  scream. 

For  days  and  nights  he  wander'd  on, 

Push'd  on  by  hands  behind; 
And  the  days  went  by  like  black,  black  rain 

And  the  nights  like  rushing  wind. 

'  Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot, 

Strange,  and  sad,  and  tall, 
Stood  all  alone  at  dead  of  night 

Before  a  lighted  hall. 

And  the  wold  was  white  with  snow, 
And  his  foot-marks  black  and  damp. 

And  the  ghost  of  the  silver  Moon  arose, 
Holding  her  yellow  lamp. 


i92  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And  the  icicles  were  on  the  eaves, 
And  the  walls  were  deep  with  white, 

And  the  shadows  of  the  guests  within 
Pass'd  on  the  window  light. 

The  shadows  of  the  wedding  guests 

Did  strangely  come  and  go, 
And  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow. 

The  body  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Lay  stretch'd  along  the  snow; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Ran  swiftly  to  and  fro. 

To  and  fro,  and  up  and  down, 

He  ran  so  swiftly  there. 
As  round  and  round  the  frozen  Pole 

Glideth  the  lean  white  bear. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  sat  at  the  table-head, 
And  the  lights  burn'd  bright  and  clear — 

"  Oh,  who  is  that,"  th-e  Bridegroom  said, 
*'  Whose  weary  feet  I  hear?  " 

'Twas  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answer'd  soft  and  slow, 
"  It  is  a  wolf  runs  up  and  down 

With  a  black  track  in  the  snow." 

The  Bridegroom,  in  his  robe  of  white, 

Sat  at  the  table-head — 
"  Oh,  who  is  that  who  moans  without? '' 

The  blessed   Bridegroom   said. 


THE   BALLAD   OF   JUDAS    ISCARIOT  2r, 

■^Twas  one  look'd  from  the  lighted  hall, 

And  answer'd  fierce  and  low, 
"  'Tis  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Gliding  to  and  fro." 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Did  hush  itself  and  stand, 
And  saw  the  Bridegroom  at  the  door 

With  a  light  in  his  hand. 

The   Bridegroom  stood   in  the  open  door, 

And  he  was  clad  in  white, 
And  far  within  the  Lord's  Supper 

Was  spread  so  long  and  bright. 

The   Bridegroom   shaded   his  eyes  and  look'd; 

And  his  face  was  bright  to  see — 
"  What  dost  thou   here  at  the  Lord's  Supper 

With  thy  body's  sins?  "  said  he. 

'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stood  black,  and  sad,  and  bare — 
"  I  have  wander'd  many  nights  and  days; 

There  is  no  light  elsewhere." 

'Twas  the  wedding  guests  cried  out  within, 
And  their  eyes  were  fierce  and  bright — 

"  Scourge  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 
Away  into  the  night !  " 

Tlie  Bridegroom  stood  in  the  open  door, 

And  he  wav'd  hands  still  and  slow. 
And  the  third  time  that  he  wav'd  his  hands 

The  air  was  thick  with  snow. 


294  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And  of  every  flake  of  falling  snow, 

Before  it  tonch'd  the  ground, 
There  came  a  dove,  and  a  thousand  doves 

Made   sweet   sound. 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas   Iscariot 

Floated  away  full  fleet. 
And  the  wings  of  the  doves  that  bare  it  off 

Were  like  its  winding-sheet. 

'Twas  the  Bridegroom  stood  at  the  open  door 

And  beckon'd,  smiling  sweet; 
'Twas  the  soul  of  Judas  Iscariot 

Stole  in,  and  fell  at  his  feet. 

"The  Holy  Supper  is  spread  within, 

And  the  many  candles  shine, 
And  I  have  waited  long  for  thee 

Before  I  pour'd  the  wine !  " 

The  supper  wine  is  pour'd  at  last. 

The  lights  burn  bright  and  fair, 
Iscariot  washes  the  Bridegroom's  feet 

And  dries  them  with  his  hair. 


"  ONE,   TWO,    THREE  *'  295 

"ONE,  TWO,   THREE" 

HENRY    C.     BUNNER 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 

And  a  boy  who  was  half-past  three, 

And  the  way  that  they  played  together 
Was  beantifnl  to  see. 

She  conldn't  t;o  running-  and  jumping. 

And  the  boy,  no  more  could  he; 
For  he  was  a  thin  little  fellow. 

With  a  thin,  little,  twisted  knee. 

They  sat  in  the  yellow  sunlight. 

Out  under  the  maple  tree; 
And  the  game  that  they  played  I'll  tell  you, 

Just  as  it  was  told  to  me. 

It  w-as  Hide-and-Go-Seek  they  were  playing. 
Though  you'd  never  have  known  it  to  be — 

With  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady, 
And  a  boy  with  a  twisted  knee. 

The  boy  would  bend  his  face  down 
On  his  one  little  sound  right  knee, 

And  he'd  guess  where  she  was  hiding, 
In  guesses  One,  Two,  Three ! 

"  You  are  in  the  china  closet !  " 

He  would  cry,  and  laugh  with  glee. 

It  wasn't  the  china  closet; 

But  he  still  had  Two  and  Three. 


296  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

"  You  are  up  in  papa's  big  bedroom, 
In  the  chest  with  the  queer  old  key !  " 

And  she  said :   "  You  are  warm  and  warmer; 
But  you're  not  quite  right,"  said  she. 

'*  It  can't  be  the  Httle  cupboard 
Where  Mama's  things  used  to  be. 

So  it  must  be  the  clothespress,  Gran'ma !  " 
And  he  found  her  with  his  Three. 

Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her  fingers. 
That  were  wrinkled  and  white  and  wee, 

And  she  guessed  where  the  boy  was  hiding, 
With  a  One  and  a  Two  and  a  Three. 

And  they  never  had  stirred  from  their  places, 

Right  under  the  maple  tree — 
This  old,  old,  old,  old  lady. 

And  the  boy  with  a  lame  little  knee; 
This  dear,  dear,  dear  old  lady, 

And  the  boy  who  was  half-past  three. 


THE  LEPER 

NATHANIEL    P.    WILLIS 

"  Room  for  the  leper!    Room !  "  and  as  he  came 
The  cry  passed  on.    "  Room  for  the  leper !    Room  i 
And  aside  they  stood — 

Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 
Who  met  him  on  the  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper,  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow. 


IHh    LtJ'KK  297 

Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering — stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying,  "  Unclean !   unclean  !  " 
For  Helon  was  a  leper. 

Day  was  breaking, 

When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.    The  incense  lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chant 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof, 
Like  an  articulate  wail;   and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness;  and  bowed  down  his  head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb, 
And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
Hid  in  the  loathsome  covering,  stood  still, 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom : — 

''  Depart !   depart,  O  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God! 
For  he  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod, 
And  to  the  desert  wild. 
From  all  thou  lov'st.  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  his  people  may  be  free. 

"  Depart !    and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city  more; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er; 
And  stav  thou  not  to  hear 


298  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way;   and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

"  Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide; 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 
By  desert  well,  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

"  And  pass  thou  not  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze; 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen. 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain. 

*'  And  now  depart !    and  when 
Thy  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim. 
Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who  from  the  tribes  of  men. 
Selected  thee  to  feel  His  chastening  rod : — 
Depart,  O  leper!   and  forget  not  God." 

And  he  went  forth, — alone!     Not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart. 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.    Yea,  he  went  his  way, — 
Sick  and  heart-broken,  and  alone, — to  die  I 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper. 

It  was  noon, 
And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow. 


THE    LEPER  299 

Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
Tlie  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  he  might  be  so  blest, — to  die ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying.  **  Unclean  !   unclean  !  "  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth,  shrouding  up  his  face, 
He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name, 
"  Helon !  "     The  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument, — most  strangely  sweet; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  aw^oke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leperous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon,  arise !  "     And  he  forgot  his  curse. 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him.     Love  and  awe 
Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Helon's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore; 
No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler,  sword,  or  spear;   yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  he  smiled, 
A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips. 
The  lion  would  have  crouched  to  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple  and  his  sandals  worn; 
His  statue  modelled  with  a  j^erfect  grace; 
His  countenance,  the  impress  of  a  God, 
Touched  w'ith  the  open  innocence  of  a  child; 
His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 
In  the  serenest  noon;   his  hair  unshorn 


500  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

Fell  to  his  shoulders;    and  his  curling  beard 

The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 

He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 

As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 

He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand 

And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean!  " 

And  lo !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 

Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veinS; 

And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 

The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant  stole. 

His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 

Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet,  and  worshipped  him. 


THE  GIFT  THAT  NONE  COULD  SEE 

MARY    E.     WILKINS 

"  There  are  silver  pines  on  the  window-pane, 

A  forest  of  them,"  said  he; 
"  And  a  huntsman  is  there  with  a  silver  horn, 

Which  he  bloweth  right  merrily. 

"  And  there  are  a  flock  of  silver  ducks 

A-flying  over  his  head; 
And  a  silver  sea  and  a  silver  hill 

In  the  distance  away,"  he  said. 

"  And  all  this  is  on  the  window-pane, 
My  pretty  mamma,  true  as  true !  " 

She  lovingly  smiled;    but  she  looked  not  up, 
And  faster  her  needle  flew 


TIIK    GIFT   THAT    .NO.NK    toUl.I)    SEE  3OI 

A  dear  little  fellow  the  speaker  was — 

Silver  and  jewels  and  gold. 
Lilies  and  roses  and  honey-tiowers, 

In  a  sweet  little  bundle  rolled. 

He  stood  l)y  the  frosty  window-pane 

Till  he  tired  of  the  silver  trees, 
The  huntsman  blowing  his  silver  horn, 

The  hills  and  the  silver  seas; 

And  he  breathed  on  the  flock  of  silver  ducks, 

Till  he  melted  them  quite  away; 
And  he  saw  the  street,  and  the  people  pass — 

And  the  morrow  was  Christmas  Day. 

"  The  children  are  out,  and  they  laugh  and  shout, 

I  know  what  it's  for,"  said  he; 
"  And  they're  dragging  along,  my  pretty  mamma, 

A  fir  for  a  Christmas-tree." 

He  came  and  stood  by  his  mother's  side: 

"To-night  it  is  Christmas  Eve; 
And  is  there  a  gift  somewhere  for  me, 

Gold  mamma,  do  you  believe?  " 

Still  the  needle  sped  in  her  slender  hands: 

"  My  little  sweetheart,"  said  she, 
"  The  Christ  Child  has  planned  this  Christmas,  for  you, 

His  gift  that  you  cannot  see." 

The  boy  looked  up  with  a  sweet,  wise  look 

On  his  beautiful  baby-face : 
"  Then  my  stocking  I'll  hang  for  the  Christ  Child's  gift. 

To-night,  in  the  chiniuey-plac^," 


302  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

On  Christmas  morning  the  city  through, 

The  children  were  queens  and  kings. 
With  their  royal  treasuries  bursting  o'er 

With  wonderful  lovely  things. 

But  the  merriest  child  in  the  city  full, 

And  the  fullest  of  all  with  glee, 
Was  the  one  whom  the  dear  Christ  Child  had  brought 

The  gift  that  he  could  not  see. 

''  Quite  empty  it  looks,  oh.  my  gold  mamma, 

The  stocking  I  hung  last  night !  " 
"  So  then  it  is  full  of  the  Christ  Child's  gift." 

And  she  smiled  till  his  face  grew  bright. 

"  Now,  sweetheart,"  she  said,  with  a  patient  look 
On  her  delicate,  weary  face, 

"  I  must  go  and  carrv  my  sewing  home, 
And  leave  thee  a  little  space. 

"  Now  stay  with  thy  sweet  thoughts,  heart's  delight, 

And  I  soon  will  be  back  to  thee." 
"  I'll  play,  while  you're  gone,  my  pretty  mamma, 

With  my  gift  that  I  cannot  see.'' 

He  watched  his  mother  pass  down  the  street; 

Then  he  looked  at  the  window-pane 
Where  a  garden  of  new  frost-flowers  had  bloomed 

While  he  on  his  bed  had  lain. 

Then  he  tenderly  took  up  his  empty  sock, 

And  quietly  sat  awhile. 
Holding  it  fast,  and  eying  it 

With  his  innocent,  trusting  smile. 


THE    GIFT   THAT    NONE   COULD    SEE  303 

"  I  am  tired  of  waiting,"  he  said  at  last; 

"  I  think  I  will  go  and  meet 
My  pretty  mamma,  and  come  with  her 

A  little  way  down  the  street. 

".And  I'll  carry  with  me,  to  keep  it  safe. 

My  gift  that  I  cannot  see." 
And  down  the  street  'mid  the  chattering  crowd, 

lie  trotted  right  merrily. 

''  And  where  are  you  going,  you  dear  little  man?  " 

They  called  to  him  as  he  passed; 
"  That  empty  stocking  why  do  you  hold 

In  your  little  hand  so  fast?  " 

Then  he  looked  at  them  with  his  honest  eyes, 

And  answered  sturdily : 
'*  My  stocking  is  full  to  the  top,  kind  sirs. 

Of  the  gift  that  I  cannot  see." 

They  would  stare  and  laugh,  but  he  trudged  along, 

With  his  stocking  fast  in  his  hand : 
"  And  I  wonder  why  'tis  that  the  people  all 

Seem  not  to  understand !  " 

"  Oh,  my  heart's  little  flower !  "  she  cried  to  him, 

A-hurrying  down  the  street; 
"  And  why  are  you  out  on  the  street  alone? 

And  where  are  you  going,  my  sweet?  " 

"  I  was  coming  to  meet  you,  my  pretty  mamma, 

With  my  gift  that  I  cannot  see; 
But  tell  me,  why  do  the  people  laugh, 

And  stare  at  my  gift  and  me?  " 


304  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Like  the  Maid  at  her  Son,  in  the  Altar-piecCj 
So  loving  she  looked,  and  mild : 

"  Because,  dear  heart,  of  all  that  you  met, 
Not  one  was  a  little  child." 

O  thou  who  art  grieving  at  Christmas-tide, 

The  lesson  is  meant  for  thee; 
That  thou  mayst  get  Christ's  loveliest  gifts 

In  ways  thou  canst  not  see; 

And  how,  although  no  earthly  good 

Seems  into  thy  lot  to  fall, 
Hast  thou  a  trusting  child-like  heart, 

Thou  hast  the  best  of  all. 


SPAIN'S    LAST   ARMADA 

WALLACE     RICE 

They  fling  their  flags  upon  the  morn, 
Their  safety's  held  a  thing  for  scorn,  ' 
As  to  the  fray  the  Spaniards  on  the  wings  of  war  are 
borne; 
Their  sullen  smoke-clouds  writhe  and  reel. 
And  sullen  are  their  ships  of  steel, 
All  ready,  cannon,  lanyards,  from  the  fighting-tops  to 
keel. 

They  cast  upon  the  golden  air 

One  glancing,  helpless,  hopeless  prayer. 
To  ask  that  swift  and  thorough  be  the  victory  falling 
there ; 

Then  giants  with  a  cheer  and  sigh 

Burst  forth  to  battle  and  to  die 
Beneath  the  walls  of  Morro  on  that  morning  in  July. 


SPAIN'S    LAST   ARMADA  305 

The  Teresa  heads  the  haughty  train, 
To  hear  the  A(hiiiral  of  Spain, 
She  rushes,  hurtHng,  whitening,  Hke  the  summer  hur- 
ricane; 
El  Morro  glowers  in  liis  might; 
Socapa  crimsons  with  the  fight; 
The  Oqueudo's  lunging  lightning  blazes  through  her 
sombre  night. 

In  desperate  and  eager  dash 

The  J'iseaya  hurls  her  vivid  flash, 
As  wild  upon  the  waters  her  enormous  batteries  crash; 

Like  spindrift  scuds  the  fleet  Colon, 

And,  on  her  bubbling  wake  bestrown, 
Lurch,   hungry   for   the   slaughter,  El  Furor  and  El 
Phiton. 

Round  Santiago's  armored  crest, 
Serene,  in  their  gray  valor  dressed. 
Our  behemoths  lie  quiet,  watching  well  from  south 
and  west; 
Their  keen  eyes  spy  the  harbor-reek; 
The  signals  dance,  the  signals  speak; 
Then  breaks  the  blasting  riot  as  our  broadsides  storm 
and  shriek ! 

Quick,  poising  on  her  eagle-wings. 

The  Brooklyn  into  battle  swings; 
The  wide  sea  falls  and  wonders  as  the  titan  Texas 
springs; 

The  loi'^'Li  in  monster-leaps 

Goes  bellowing  al)ove  the  deeps; 
The  Indiana  thunders  as  her  terror  onward  sweeps. 


306  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And,  hovering  near  and  hovering  low 
Until  the  moment  strikes  to  go, 
In  gallantry  the  Gloucester  swoops  down  on  her  double 
foe; 
She  volleys — the  Furor  falls  lame; 
Again — and  the  Plutoifs  aflame; 
Hurrah,  on  high  she's  tossed  her!     Gone  the  grim 
destroyers'  fame ! 

And  louder  yet  and  louder  roar 

The  Oregon's  black  cannon  o'er 
The  clangor  and  the  booming  all  along  the  Cuban 
shore. 

She's  swifting  down  her  valkyr-path, 

Her  sword  sharp  for  the  aftermath, 
With  levin  in  her  glooming,  like  Jehovah  in  His  wrath. 

Great  ensigns  snap  and  shine  in  air 
Above  the  furious  onslaught  where 
Our  sailors  cheer  the  battle,  danger  but  a  thing  to 
dare; 
Our  gunners  speed,  as  oft  they've  sped, 
Their  hail  of  shrilling,  shattering  lead. 
Swift-sure  our  rifles  rattle,  and  the  foeman's  decks  are 
red. 

Like  baying  bloodhounds  lope  our  ships, 
Adrip  with  fire  their  cannons'  lips; 
We  scourge  the  fleeing  Spanish,  whistling  weals  from 
scorpion-whips; 
Till,  livid  in  the  ghastly  glare. 
They  tremble  on  in  dread  despair, 
And  thoughts  of  victory  vanish  in  the  carnage  they 
must  bear. 


SPAIN'S   LAST   ARMADA  307 

Where  Cuban  coasts  iti  l)cauty  bloom, 
Where  Cuban  breakers  swirl  and  boom, 

The  Teresa  s  onset  slackens  in  a  scarlet  spray  of  doom; 
Near  Nimanima's  greening  hill 
The  streaming  flames  cry  down  her  will. 

Her  vast  hull  blows  and  blackens,  prey  to  every  mor 
tal  ill. 

On  Juan  Gonzales'  foaming  strand 
The  Oqiie)ido  plunges  'neath  our  hand. 

Her  armaments  all  strangled,  and  her  hope  a  shower- 
ing brand; 
She  strikes  and  grinds  upon  the  reef. 
And,  shuddering  there  in  utter  grief. 

In  misery  and  mangled,  wastes  away  beside  her  chief. 

The  ]  'iscaya  nevermore  shall  ride 

From  out  Aserradero's  tide, 
With  hate  upon  her  forehead  ne'er  again  she'll  pass 
in  pride; 

Beneath  our  fearful  battle-spell 

She  moaned  and  struggled,  flared  and  fell. 
To  lie  agleam  and  horrid,  while  the  piling  fires  swell. 

Thence  from  the  wreck  of  Spain  alone 
Tears  on  the  terrified  Colon, 
In  bitter  anguish  crying,  like  a  storm-bird  forth  she's 
flown; 
Her  throbbing  engines  creak  and  thrum; 
She  sees  abeam  the  Brooklyn  come. 
For  life  she's  gasping,  flying;    for  the  combat  is  she 
dumb. 


308  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Till  then  the  man  behind  the  gun 
Had  wrought  whatever  must  be  done — 
Here,  now,  beside  our  boilers  is  the  fight  fought  out 
and  won; 
Where  great  machines  pulse  on  and  beat, 
A-swelter  in  the  humming  heat 
The  Nation's  nameless  toilers  make  her  mastery  com= 
plete. 

The  Cape  o'  the  Cross  casts  out  a  stone 
Against  the  course  of  the  Colon, 
Despairing  and  inglorious  on  the  wind  her  white  flag's 
thrown ; 
Spain's  last  Armada,  lost  and  wan, 
Lies  wdiere  Tarquino's  stream  rolls  on, 
As   round    the   world,   victorious,   looms    the   dread- 
nought Oregon. 

The  sparkling  daybeams  softly  flow 
To  glint  the  twilight  afterglow, 
The  banner  sinks  in  splendor  that  in  battle  ne'er  was 
low ; 
The  music  of  our  country's  hymn 
Rings  out  like  song  of  seraphim. 
Fond  memories  and  tender  fill  the  evening  fair  and 
dim; 

Our  huge  ships  ride  in  majesty 

Unchallenged  o'er  the  glittering  sea, 
Above  them  white  stars  cluster,  mighty  emblem  of 
the  free; 

And  all  adown  the  long  sea-lane 

The  fitful  bale-fires  wax  and  wane 
'-^■^  shed  their  lurid  lustre  on  the  empire  that  was  Spain, 


DORA  309 

DORA 

ALFRED    LORD    TENNYSON 

With  farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode 

William  and  Dora.     William  was  his  son, 

And  she  his  niece.     He  often  look'd  at  them, 

And  often  thought,  "  I'll  make  them  man  and  wife." 

Now  Dora  felt  her  uncle's  will  in  all. 

And  yearn'd  toward  William;   but  the  youth,  because 

He  had  been  always  with  her  in  the  house, 

Thought  not  of  Dora. 

Then  there  came  a  day 
When  Allan  call'd  his  son.  and  said,  "  My  son: 
I  married  late,  but  I  would  wish  to  see 
jVIy  grandchild  on  my  knees  before  I  die : 
And  I  have  set  my  heart  upon  a  match. 
Now  therefore  look  to  Dora;  she  is  well 
To  look  to;    thrifty  too  beyond  her  age. 
She  is  my  brother's  daughter:    he  and  I 
Had  once  hard  words,  and  parted,  and  he  died 
In  foreign  lands;   but  for  his  sake  I  bred 
His  daughter  Dora:    take  her  for  your  wife; 
For  I  have  wish'd  this  marriage,  night  and  day, 
For  many  years."     But  William  answer'd  short; 
"  I  cannot  marry  Dora;   by  my  life, 
I  will  not  marry  Dora."    Then  the  old  man 
Was  wroth,  and  doubled  up  his  hands,  and  said: 
"  You  will  not,  boy!   you  dare  to  answer  thus! 
But  in  my  time  a  father's  word  was  law, 
And  so  it  shall  be  now  for  me.     Look  to  it; 
Consider,  William :    take  a  month  to  think. 


3IO  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And  let  me  have  an  answer  to  my  wish; 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  made  me,  you  shah  pack, 
And  never  more  darken  my  doors  again." 
But  William  answer'd  madly;   bit  his  lips, 
And  broke  away.    The  more  he  look'd  at  her 
The  less  he  Hked  her;   and  his  ways  were  harsh; 
But  Dora  bore  them  meekly.    Then  before 
The  month  was  out  he  left  his  father's  house, 
And  hired  himself  to  work  within  the  fields; 
And  half  in  love,  half  spite,  he  woo'd  and  wed 
A  laborer's  daughter,  Mary  Morrison. 

Then,  when  the  bells  were  ringing,  Allan  call'd 
His  niece  and  said :   "  My  girl,  I  love  you  well; 
But  if  you  speak  with  him  that  was  my  son. 
Or  change  a  word  with  her  he  calls  his  wife, 
My  home  is  none  of  yours.     My  will  is  law." 
And  Dora  promised,  being  meek.     She  thought, 
"  It  cannot  be :   my  uncle's  mind  will  change!  " 

And  days  went  on,  and  there  was  born  a  boy 
To  William;   then  distresses  came  on  him; 
And  day  by  day  he  pass'd  his  father's  gate, 
Heart-broken,  and  his  father  help'd  him  not. 
But  Dora  stored  what  little  she  could  save, 
And  sent  it  them  by  stealth,  nor  did  they  know 
Who  sent  it;   till  at  last  a  fever  seized 
On  William,  and  in  harvest  time  he  died. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary.     Mary  sat 
And  look'd  with  tears  upon  her  boy,  and  thought 
Hard  things  of  Dora.    Dora  came  and  said : 

"  I  have  obey'd  my  uncle  until  now. 
And  I  have  sinn'd,  for  it  was  all  thro'  me 
This  evil  came  on  William  at  the  first. 


DORA  311 

But,  Mary,  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone, 

And  for  your  sake,  the  woman  that  he  chose, 

And  for  this  orphan,  I  am  come  to  you: 

You  know  there  has  not  been  for  these  five  years 

So  full  a  harvest :    let  me  take  the  boy, 

And  I  will  set  him  in  my  uncle's  eye 

Among  the  wheat;   that  when  his  heart  is  glad 

Of  the  full  harvest,  he  may  see  the  boy, 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone." 

And  Dora  took  the  child,  and  went  her  way 
Across  the  wheat,  and  sat  upon  a  mound 
That  was  unsown,  where  many  poppies  grew. 
Far  off  the  farmer  came  into  the  field 
And  spied  her  not;   for  none  of  all  his  men 
Dare  tell  him  Dora  waited  with  the  child; 
And  Dora  would  have  risen  and  gone  to  him, 
But  her  heart  fail'd  her;   and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

But  when  the  morrow  came,  she  rose  and  took 
The  child  once  more,  and  sat  upon  the  niound; 
And  made  a  little  wreath  of  all  the  flowers 
That  grew  about,  and  tied  it  round  his  hat 
To  make  him  pleasing  in  her  uncle's  eye. 
Then  wdien  the  farmer  pass'd  into  the  field 
He  spied  her,  and  he  left  his  men  at  work. 
And  came  and  said:   "  Where  were  you  yesterday? 
Whose  child  is  that?    What  are  you  doing  here?" 
So  Dora  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
And  answer'd  softly,  "This  is  William's  child!" 
"  And  did  I  not,"  said  Allan,  "  did  I  not 
Forbid  you,  Dora?  "    Dora  said  again: 
"  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  but  take  the  child, 


312  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

And  bless  him  for  the  sake  of  him  that's  gone!  " 

And  Allan  said,  "  I  see  it  is  a  trick 

Got  up  betwixt  you  and  the  woman  there. 

I  must  be  taught  my  duty,  and  by  you ! 

You  knew  my  word  was  law,  and  yet  you  dared 

To  slight  it.     Well — for  I  will  take  the  boy: 

But  go  you  hence,  and  never  see  me  more." 

So  saying,  he  took  the  boy  that  cried  aloud 
And  struggled  hard.    The  wreath  of  flowers  fell 
At  Dora's  feet.     She  bow'd  upon  her  hands. 
And  the  boy's  cry  came  to  her  from  the  field. 
More  and  more  distant.    She  bow'd  down  her  head. 
Remembering  the  day  when  first  she  came, 
And  all  the  things  that  had  been.     She  bow'd  down 
And  wept  in  secret;   and  the  reapers  reap'd, 
And  the  sun  fell,  and  all  the  land  was  dark. 

Then  Dora  went  to  Mary's  house,  and  stood 
Upon  the  threshold.     Mary  saw  the  boy 
Was  not  with  Dora.     She  broke  out  in  praise 
To  God,  that  help'd  her  in  her  widowhood. 
And  Dora  said,  "  My  uncle  took  the  boy; 
But,  Mary,  let  me  live  and  work  with  you : 
He  says  that  he  will  never  see  me  more." 
Then  answer'd  Mary,  "  This  shall  never  be, 
That  thou  shouldst  take  my  trouble  on  thyself: 
And,  now  I  think,  he  shall  not  have  the  boy. 
For  he  will  teach  him  hardness,  and  to  slight 
His  mother;    therefore  thou  and  I  will  go, 
And  I  will  have  my  boy,  and  bring  him  home:, 
And  I  will  beg  of  him  to  take  thee  back : 
But  if  he  will  not  take  thee  back  again. 
Then  thou  and  I  will  live  within  one  house. 


DORA  313 

And  work  for  William's  child,  until  he  i^iows 
Of  age  to  help  us." 

So  the  women  kiss'd 
Each  other,  and  set  out,  and  reach'd  the  farm. 
The  door  was  otT  the  latch :    they  peep'd.  and  saw 
The  boy  set  up  betwixt  his  grandsire's  knees, 
Who  thrust  him  in  the  hollows  of  his  arm, 
And  clapt  him  on  the  hands  and  on  the  cheeks, 
Like  one  that  loved  him :   and  the  lad  stretch'd  out 
And  babbled  for  the  golden  seal,  that  hung 
From  Allan's  watch,  and  sparkled  by  the  fire. 
Then  they  came  in :   but  when  the  boy  beheld 
His  mother,  he  cried  out  to  come  to  her: 
And  Allan  set  him  down,  and  ^lary  said: 

"  O  Father! — if  you  let  me  call  you  so — 
I  never  came  a-begging  for  myself. 
Or  William,  or  this  child;  but  now  I  come 
For  Dora:    take  her  back;    she  loves  you  well. 

0  Sir,  when  \\'illiam  died,  he  died  at  peace 
With  all  men;  for  I  ask'd  him,  and  he  said. 
He  could  not  ever  rue  his  marrying  me — 

1  had  been  a  patient  wife :   but,  Sir,  he  said 
That  he  was  wrong  to  cross  his  father  thus : 

'  God  bless  him !  '  he  said,  '  and  may  he  never  know 
The  troubles  I  have  gone  thro' ! '    Then  he  turn'd 
His  face  and  pass'd — unhappy  that  I  am ! 
But  now%  Sir,  let  me  have  my  boy,  for  you 
Will  make  him  hard,  and  he  will  learn  to  slight 
His  father's  memory;   and  take  Dora  back, 
And  let  all  this  be  as  it  was  before." 

So  Mary  said,  and  Dora  hid  her  face 
By  Mary.    There  was  silence  in  the  room; 


314  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And  all  at  once  the  old  man  burst  in  sobs : — 

"  I  have  been  to  blame — to  blame.    I  have  kill'd  m}^ 

son. 

I  have  kill'd  him — but  I  loved  him — my  dear  son. 

May  God  forgive  me ! — I  have  been  to  blame. 

Kiss  me,  my  children." 

Then  they  clung  about 

The  old  man's  neck,  and  kiss'd  him  many  times. 
And  all  the  man  was  broken  with  remorse; 
And  all  his  love  came  back  a  hundred-fold; 
And  for  three  hours  he  sobb'd  o'er  William's  child 
Thinking  of  William. 

So  those  four  abode 
Within  one  house  together;    and  as  years 
Went  forward,  Mary  took  another  mate; 
But  Dora  lived  unmarried  till  her  death. 


THE   EMIR'S   GAME   OF    CHESS 

{London   Speaker) 

Mohammed,  Emir  of  Granada,  kept 
His  brother  Yusuf  captive  in  the  hold 
Of  Salobrina.     When  Mohammed  lay 
Sick  unto  death,  and  knew  that  he  must  die, 
He  wrote  with  his  own  hand,  and  sealed  the  scroll 
With  his  own  seal,  and  sent  to  Khaled,  "  Slay 
Thy  prisoner,  Yusuf." 

At  the  chess-board  sat, 
Playing  the  game  of  kings,  as  friend  with  friend, 
The  captive  and  his  gaoler,  whom  he  loved. 
Backward  and  forward  swayed  the  mimic  war; 


THE  p:mir's  game  of  chess  315 

Hither  and  thither  i^ianced  the  kiiii^hts  across 

The  field — the  Queen  swept  castles  down,  and  passed 

Trampling  through  the  ranks,  when  in  her  path 

A  castle  rose,  threatened  a  knight  in  tlank — 

"  Beware,  my  lord — or  else  1  take  the  Oueen !  " 

Swift,  on  his  word,  a  knocking  at  the  gate. 

"  Nay.  but  my  castle  holds  the  King  in  check!  " — 

And  in  the  doorway  stood  a  messenger: 

"  Behold! — a  message  from  my  lord  the  King!" 

And  Khaled  stood  upon  his  feet,  and  reached 

His  hand  to  take  the  scroll,  and  bowed  his  head 

O'er  the  King's  seal. 

"  Friend,  thou  hast  ridden  fast?  " — ■ 

The  man  si)ake  panting,  and  the  sweat  ran  down 

His  brows  and  fell  like  raindrops  on  the  flags — 

"  I  left  Granada  at  the  dawn — the  King 

Had  need  of  haste." 

And  Khaled  broke  the  seal 

And  read  with  livid  lips,  and  spake  no  word, 

But  thrust  the  scroll  into  his  breast     .     .     .     Then 

turned 

And  bade  the  man  go  rest,  and  eat,  and  drink.    .    .    . 

But  Yusuf  smiled,  and  said :   "  O  friend — and  doth 

My  brother  ask  my  head  of  thee?  "    Then  he 

Whose  wrung  heart  choked  the  answer  gave  the  scroll 

To  Yusuf's  hand,  but  spake  not.     Yusuf  read 

Unto  the  end.  and  laid  the  parchment  down. 

"  Yet  there  is  time — shall  we  not  end  the  game? 

Thy  castle  menaces  my  King — behold! 

A  knight  has  saved  the  King!  " 

But  Khaled's  knees 

Were  loosed  with  dread,  and  white  his  lips;   he  fell 


310  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Back  on  the  couch,  and  gazed  on  Ynsuf  s  face 

Like  one  astonished.     Ynsiif's  fearless  eyes 

Smiled  back  at  his,  iinconquered.     "  Brother,  what 

So  troubles  thee?    What  can  Mohammed  do, 

Save  send  me  forth  to  find — only,  maybe, 

A  little  sooner  than  I  else  had  gone — 

The  truth  of  those  things  whereof  thou  and  I 

Have  questioned  oft?    To-morrow  at  this  time 

I  shall  know  all  Aflatoun  knew,  and  thou 

Shalt  know  one  day.    And,  since  we  have  this  hour, 

Play  we  the  game  to  end." 

Then  Khaled  moved 

A  pawn  with  trembling  fingers. 

"  See — thy  Queen 

Is  left  unguarded.    Nay  ! — thy  thoughts  had  strayed — 

I  will  not  take  her." 

Khaled  cast  himself 

Down  on  his  face,  and  cried,  like  one  in  pain, 

"  Be  thou  or  more  or  less — I  am  but  man ! 

For  me  to  see  thee  go  unto  thy  death 

Is  not  a  morning's  pastime." 

"  Nay — and  yet 

Were  it  not  well  to  keep  this  thought  of  me 

In  this  last  hour  together,  as  if  our 

Mohammed  could  not  conquer? — I  perchance 

May  yet  look  back.    .    .    .    But  hark  ! — who  comes?  " 

Aloud 

The  thundering  hoofs  upon  the  drawbridge  rang 

Of  Andalusian  stallions;  and  a  voice 

Cried  "  Hail!    King  Yusuf!  " — drowned  in  answering 

shouts 

And  hammering  lance-shafts  thick  upon  the  gate. 

Then  Khaled,  trembling,  stood,  with  ashen  lips, 


SHEMUS   O'BRIEN  3I7 

Listening,  as  in  a  dream.     And  nnto  him 

Came    Ynsnf — canght    him    in    his   arms.      "  Heart's 

friend ! 
Fear  not,  all's  well.     The  King  shall  not  forget 
Who  loved  him.  even  to  the  brink  of  death  ! 
Look  np,  beloved  ! — 

See,  thou  hast  swept  the  men 
From  off  the  board.  'Twas  writ  in  heaven,  we  twc 
Should  never  play  that  game  unto  the  end !  " 


SHEMUS  O'BRIEN 

A  Tale  of  '98,  as  Related  by  an  Irish 
Peasant 

joseph    sheridan   le   fanu 

Jist  after  the  war,  in  the  year  '98, 
As  soon  as  the  Boys  wor  all  scattered  and  bate, 
'Twas  the  custom,  whenever  a  peasant  was  got, 
To  hang  him  by  trial — barrin'  such  as  was  shot. 
An'  the  bravest  an'  hardiest  Boy  iv  them  all 
Was  Shemus  O'Brien,  from  the  town  iv  Glingall. 

An'  it's  he  was  the  Boy  that  was  hard  to  be  caught, 
An'  it's  often  he  run,  an'  it's  often  he  fought ; 
An'  it's  many  the  one  can  remember  right  well 
The  quare  things  he  did :   an'  it's  oft  I  heerd  tell 
How  he  frightened  the  magistrates  in  Chirbally, 
An'  'scaped  through  the  sojers  in  Aherlow  valley; 
How  he  leathered  the  yeoman,  himself  agin  four, 
An'  stretched  the  two  strongest  on  ould  Golteemore. 


31 8  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

But  the  fox  must  sleep  sometimes,  the  wild  deer  must 

rest, 
An'  treachery  prey  on  the  blood  iv  the  best; 
Afther  many  a  brave  action  of  power  and  pride, 
An'  many  a  hard  night  on  the  mountain's  bleak  side, 
An'  a  thousand  great  dangers  and  toils  overpast, 
In  the  darkness  of  night  he  was  taken  at  last. 

Now,  Shemus,  look  back  on  the  beautiful  moon, 
For  the  door  of  the  prison  must  close  on  you  soon. 
Farewell  to  the  forest,  farewell  to  the  hill, 
An'  farewell  to  the  friends  that  will  think  of  you  still. 
Farewell  to  the  pathern,  the  hurlin'  an'  wake, 
And  farewell  to  the  girl  that  would  die  for  your  sake ! 
An'  twelve  sojers  brought  him  to  Maryborough  jail. 
An'  the  turnkey  resaved  him,  refusin'  all  bail. 

Well,  as  soon  as  a  few  weeks  were  over  and  gone, 
The  terrible  day  iv  the  thrial  kem  on, 
There  was  sich  a  crowd  there  was  scarce  room  to  stand. 
An'  sojers  on  guard,  an'  Dragoons  sword-in-hand; 
An'  the  courthouse  so  full  that  the  people  were  both- 
ered, 
An'  attorneys  an'  criers  on  the  point  iv  bein'  smoth- 
ered; 
An'  counsellors  almost  gev  over  for  dead,  • 
An'  the  jury  sittin'  up  in  their  box  overhead; 
An'  the  judge  settled  out  so  detarmined  an'  big 
With  his  gown  on  his  back,  and  an  illegant  wig; 
An'  silence  was  called,  an'  the  minute  'twas  said 
The  court  was  as  still  as  the  heart  of  the  dead, 
An'  they  heard  but  the  openin'  of  one  prison  lock. 
An'  Shemus  O'Brien  kem  into  the  dock. 


SHEMUS   O'BRIEN  319 

For  one  minute  he  turned  his  eye  round  on  the  throng, 

An'  he  looked  at  the  bars  so  firm  and  so  strong, 

An'  he  saw  that  he  had  not  a  hope  nor  a  friend, 

A  chance  to  escape,  nor  a  word  to  defend; 

An'  he  folded  his  arms  as  he  stood  there  alone, 

As  calm  and  as  cold  as  a  statue  of  stone; 

And  they  read  a  big  writin'.  a  yard  long  at  laste, 

An'  Jim  didn't  understand  it  nor  mind  it  a  taste, 

An'  the  judge  took  a  big  pinch  iv  snuff,  and  he  says, 

"  Are  you  guilty  or  not,  Jim  O'Brien,  av  you  plase?  " 

An'  all  held  their  breath  in  the  silence  of  dhread, 

An'  Shemus  O'Brien  made  answer  and  said: 

"  My  lord,  if  you  ask  me,  if  in  my  lifetime 

I  thought  any  treason,  or  did  any  crime 

That  should  call  to  my  cheek,  as  I  stand  alone  here. 

The  hot  blush  of  shame,  or  the  coldness  of  fear, 

Though  I  stood  by  the  grave  to  receive  my  death-blow 

Before  God  and  the  world  I  would  answer  you.  No ! 

But  if  you  would  ask  me,  as  I  think  it  like. 

If  in  the  Rebellion  I  carried  a  pike. 

An'  fought  for  ould  Ireland  from  the  first  to  the  close, 

An'  shed  the  heart's  blood  of  her  bitterest  foes, 

I  answer  you.  Yes;   and  I  tell  you  again. 

Though  I  stand  here  to  perish,  it's  my  glory  that  then 

In  her  cause  I  was  willin'  my  veins  should  run  dhry. 

An'  that  now  for  her  sake  I  am  ready  to  die." 

Then  the  silence  was  great,  and  the  jury  smiled  bright, 
An'  the  judge  wasn't  sorry  the  job  was  made  light; 
By  my  sowl.  it's  himself  was  the  crabbed  ould  chap! 
In  a  twinklin'  he  pulled  on  his  ugly  black  cap. 


320  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Then  Shemiis's  mother,  in  the  crowd  standin'  by, 

Called  out  to  the  judge  with  a  pitiful  cry: 

"  O  judge !   darlin',  don't,  O,  don't  say  the  word ! 

The  crather  is  young,  have  mercy,  my  lord; 

He  was  foolish,  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  doin'; 

You  don't  know  him,  my  lord — O  don't  give  him  to 

ruin ! 
He's  the  kindliest  crathur,  the  tindherest-hearted; 
Don't  part  us  forever,  we  that's  so  long  parted ! 
Judge  mavourneen,  forgive  him,  forgive  him,  my  lord, 
An'  God  will  forgive  you — O  don't  say  the  word!" 

That  was  the  first  minute  O'Brien  was  shaken, 
When  he  saw  that  he  was  not  quite  forgot  or  forsaken; 
An'  down  his  pale  cheeks,  at  the  word  of  his  mother, 
The  big  tears  w'or  runnin'  fast,  one  afther  th'  other; 
An'  two  or  three  times  he  endeavored  to  spake, 
But  the  sthrong  manly  voice  used  to  falther  and  break; 
But  at  last,  by  the  strength  of  his  high-mountin'  pride, 
He  conc^uered  and  masthered  his  grief's  swelling  tide; 
"  An',"  says  he,  "  mother,  darlin',  don't  break  your 

poor  heart, 
For,  sooner  or  later,  the  dearest  must  part; 
And  God  knows  it's  better  than  wand'ring  in  fear 
On  the  bleak,  trackless  mountain,  among  the  wild  deer, 
To  lie  in  the  grave,  where  the  head,  heart,  and  breast, 
From  labor  and  sorrow,  forever  shall  rest. 
Then,  mother,  my  darlin',  don't  cry  any  more. 
Don't  make  me  seem  broken,  in  this  my  last  hour; 
For  I  wish,  when  my  head's  lyin'  undher  the  raven. 
No  thrue  man  can  say  that  I  died  like  a  craven  I  "* 


STTEMUS   O'BRIEK  32 J 

riien  toward  the  Judge  Shemus  bent  down  his  head, 
An'  that  minute  the  solemn  death-sentcnre  was  said. 

The  mornin'  was  bright,  an'  the  mists  rose  on  high. 
An'  the  lark  whistled  merrily  in  the  clear  sky; 
But  why  are  the  men  standin'  idle  so  late? 
An'  why  do  the  crowds  gather  fast  m  the  strate? 
What  come  they  to  talk  of?  what  come  they  to  see? 
An'  why  does  the  long  rope  hang  from  the  cross-tree? 
O  Shemus  O'Brien !   pray  fervent  and  fast, 
May  the  saints  take  your  soul,  for  this  day  is  your  last; 
Pray  fast  an'  pray  sthrong,  for  the  moment  is  nigh, 
When,  sthrong,  proud,  an'  great  as  you  are,  you  must 
die  !— 

At  last  they  threw  open  the  big  prison-gate, 
An'  out  came  the  sherifTs  and  sojers  in  state. 
An'  a  cart  in  the  middle  an'  Shemus  was  in  it. 
Not  paler,  but  prouder  than  ever,  that  minute. 
An'  as  soon  as  the  people  saw  Shemus  O'Brien, 
\Y\d  prayin'  and  blessin'.  and  all  the  girls  cryin', 
A  wild,  wailin'  sound  kem  on  by  degrees, 
Like  the  sound  of  the  lonesome  wind  blowin'  through 

trees. 
On,  on  to  the  gallows  the  sheriffs  are  gone. 
An'  the  cart  an'  the  sojers  go  steadily  on; 
An'  at  every  side  swellin'  around  of  the  cart, 
A  wild,  sorrowful  sound,  that  id  open  your  heart. 
Now  under  the  gallows  the  cart  takes  its  stand. 
An'  the  hangman  gets  up  with  the  rope  in  his  hand; 
An'  the  priest,  havin'  blest  him,  goes  down  on  the 

ground, 
An'  Shemus  O'Brien  throws  one  last  luuk  round. 


322  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Then  the  hangman  dhrew  near,  an'  the  people  grew 

still, 
Young  faces  turned  sickly,  and  warm  hearts  turned 

chill; 
An'  the  rope  bein'  ready,  his  neck  was  made  bare, 
For  the  grip  iv  the  life-strangling  cord  to  prepare; 
An'  the  good  priest  has  left  him,  havin'  said  his  last 

prayer. 
But  the  good  priest  did  more,  for  his  hands  he  un- 
bound, 
An'  with  one  daring  spring  Jim  has  leaped  on  the 

ground; 
Bang!  bang!  go  the  carbines,  and  clash  go  the  sabres; 
He's  not  down !  he's  alive !  now  stand  to  him,  neigh- 
bors ! 
Through   the   smoke   and   the   horses   he's   into   the 

crowd, — 
By  the  heavens,  he's  free ! — than  thunder  more  loud, 
By   one   shout   from  the   people   the   heavens   were 

shaken — 
One  shout  that  the  dead  of  the  world  might  awaken. 
The  sojers  ran  this  way,  the  sheriffs  ran  that, 
An'  Father  Malone  lost  his  new  Sunday  hat; 
To-night  he'll  be  sleepin'  in  Aherloe  Glin, 
An'  the  divil's  in  the  dice  if  you  catch  him  ag'in. 
Your  swords  they  may  glitter,  your  carbines  go  bang, 
But  if  you  want  hangin',  it's  yourselves  you  must  hang. 


*•  FIDELE  S  "    GRASSY   TOMB  323 

"FIDELE'S"    GRASSY    TOMB 

HENRY    NEWBOLT 

The  Squire  sat  propped  in  a  pillowed  chair, 
His  eyes  were  alive  and  clear  of  care, 
But  well  be  knew  that  the  hour  was  come 
To  bid  good-by  to  his  ancient  home. 

He  looked  on  garden,  wood,  and  hill, 
He  looked  on  the  lake,  sunny  and  still; 
The  last  of  earth  that  his  eyes  could  see 
Was  the  island  church  of  Orchardleigh. 

The  last  that  his  heart  could  understand 

Was  the  touch  of  the  tongue  that  licked  his  hand; 

"  Bury  the  dog  at  my  feet,"  he  said. 

And  his  voice  dropped,  and  the  Squire  was  dead. 

Now  the  dog  was  a  hound  of  the  Danish  breed, 
Stanch  to  love  and  strong  at  need : 
He  had  dragged  his  master  safe  to  shore 
When  the  tide  was  ebbing  at  Elsinore. 

From  that  day  forth,  as  reason  would 
He  was  named  "  Fidele,"  and  made  it  good; 
When  the  last  of  the  mourners  left  the  door 
Fidele  was  dead  on  the  chantry  floor. 

They  buried  him  there  at  his  master's  feet, 
And  all  that  heard  of  it  deemed  it  meet: 
Tlie  story  went  the  round  for  years, 
Till  it  came  at  last  to  the  Bishop's  ears. 


324  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  was  he, 

Lord  of  the  lords  of  Orchardleigh; 

And  he  wrote  to  the  Parson  the  strongest  screed 

That  Bishop  may  write  or  Parson  read. 

The  sum  of  it  was  that  a  soulless  hound 
Was  known  to  be  buried  in  hallowed  ground : 
From  scandal  sore  the  Church  to  save 
They  must  take  the  dog  from  his  master's  grave. 

The  heir  was  far  in  a  foreign  land, 
The  Parson  was  wax  to  my  Lord's  command: 
He  sent  for  the  Sexton  and  bade  him  make 
A  lonely  grave  by  the  shore  of  the  lake. 

The  Sexton  sat  by  the  water's  brink 
Where  he  used  to  sit  when  he  used  to  think: 
He  reasoned  slow,  but  he  reasoned  it  out, 
And  his  argument  left  him  free  from  doubt. 

"  A  Bishop,"  he  said,  "  is  the  top  of  his  trade: 
But  there's  others  can  give  him  a  start  with  the  spade 
Yon  dog,  he  carried  the  Squire  ashore, 
And  a  Christian  couldn't  ha'  done  no  more." 

The  grave  was  dug;   the  mason  came 
And  carved  on  stone  Fidele's  name: 
But  the  dog  that  the  Sexton  laid  inside 
Was  a  dos:  that  never  had  lived  or  died. 


'fe 


So  the  Parson  was  praised  and  the  scandal  stayed, 
Till,  a  long  time  after,  the  church  decayed, 
And,  laying  the  floor  anew,  they  found 
In  the  tomb  of  the  Squire  the  bones  of  a  hound. 


A   TALE  $2J^ 

As  for  the  Bishop  of  Bath  aiul  \\'ells 
No  more  of  him  the  story  tells; 
Doubtless  he  lived  as  a  Prelate  and  Prince, 
And  died  and  was  buried  a  century  since. 

And  whether  his  view  was  right  or  wrong 
Has  little  to  do  with  this  my  song : 
Something  we  owe  him,  you  must  allow; 
And  perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind  by  now. 

Tlie  Squire  in  the  family  chantry  sleeps, 
The  marble  still  his  memory  keeps : 
Remember  when  the  name  you  spell, 
There  rest  Fidele's  bones  as  well. 

For  the  Sexton's  grave  you  need  not  search, 
'Tis  a  nameless  mound  by  the  island  church: 
An  ignorant  fellow,  of  humble  lot — 
But  he  knew  one  thing  that  a  Bishop  did  not. 


A  TALE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
— Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me!) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin?    Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 


325  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Anyhow  there's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting !) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing :  I  desire. 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that's  behind. 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
— Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears ! 

None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune. 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soorip 
Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :    take  the  prize  !  " 

When,  a  mischief!     Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and  afterward  eleven, 

Thank  you !    Well,  sir, — who  had  guessed 
Such  ill-luck  in  store? — it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 


A   TALE  317 

All  was  lost,  then  !     No!   a  cricket 

(What  "  cicada  "?    Pooh  !) 
— Some  mad  thing-  that  left  its  thicket 

For  mere  love  of  music — tlevv 
With  its  little  heart  on  tire, 
Lighted  on  the  cri|)[)led  lyre. 

So  that  when  (Ah  joy!)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger. 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirj)s  at  need. 
Executes  the  hand's  intending. 

Promptly,  i)erfectly, — indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirruj:)  low  and  sweet. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
"  Take  the  prize — a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp !  " 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That's  no  such  luiconmion  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 


328  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

No !     This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning: 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand !) 
Said  "  Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me !  " 

So,  he  made  himself  a  statue : 

Marble  stood,  life-size; 
On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

That's  the  tale:    its  application? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Thro'  his  poetry  that's — Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize ! 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'Twas  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 

"  For  as  victory  was  nighest. 
While  I  sang  and  played, — 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 
Right  alike, — one  string  that  made 

*  Love  '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain. 

Never  to  be  heard  agfain. — 


DOMINE,    (^UO    VADISr*  32$ 

"  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

I'erched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

But  you  don't  know  music  !    Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting-  pearls 
To  a — poet?     All  1  care  for 

Is — to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"  Love  "  comes  aptly  in  when  gruf¥ 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough !) 


DOMINE,  QUO  VADIS? 

Lord,  whither  fa  rest  Thou? 
A  Legend  of  the  E.vrly  Church 

WILLIAM     WATSON 

Darkening  the  azure  roof  of  Nero's  world, 

From  smouldering  Rome  the  smoke  of  ruin  curled; 

And  the  fierce  populace  went  clamoring — 

"  These    Christian    dogs,    'tis    they    have    done    this 

thing !  " 
So  to  the  wild  wolf  Hate  were  sacrificed 
The  panting,  huddled  flock  whose  crime  was  Christ. 

Now  Peter  lodged  in  Rome,  and  rose  each  morn 
Looking  to  be  ere  night  in  sunder  torn 
By  those  blind  hands  that  with  inebriate  zeal 
Burned  ^he  strong  Saints,  or  bioke  them  on  the  wheel, 


330  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

Or  flung  them  to  the  lions  to  make  mirth 

For  dames  that  ruled  the  lords  that  ruled  the  earth. 

And  unto  him,  their  towering  rocky  hold, 
Repaired  those  sheep  of  the  Good  Shepherd's  fold 
In  whose  white  fleece  as  yet  no  blood  or  foam 
Bare  witness  to  the  ravening  fangs  of  Rome. 
"  More  light,  more  cheap,"  they  cried,  "  we  hold  our 

lives 
Than  chafi^  the  flail  or  dust  the  whirlwind  drives : 
As  chaff  they  are  winnowed  and  as  dust  are  blown; 
Nay,  they  are  nought;    but  priceless  is  thine  own. 
Not  in  yon  streaming  shambles  must  thou  die; 
We  counsel,  we  entreat,  we  charge  thee,  fly !  " 
And  Peter  answered:    "  Nay,  my  place  is  here; 
Through  the  dread  storm,  this  ship  of  Christ  I  steer. 
Blind  is  the  tempest,  deaf  the  roaring  tide, 
And  I,  His  pilot,  at  the  helm  abide." 

Then  one  stood  forth,  the  flashing  of  whose  soul 
Enrayed  his  presence  like  an  aureole. 
Eager  he  spake;    his  fellows,  ere  they  heard, 
Caught  from  his  eyes  the  swift  and  leaping  word: 
"  Let  us.  His  vines,  be  in  the  wine-press  trod, 
And  poured  a  beverage  for  the  lips  of  God; 

"  Or,  ground  as  wheat  of  His  eternal  field, 
Bread  for  His  table  let  our  bodies  yield. 
Behold,  the  Church  hath  otlier  use  for  thee. 
Thy  safety  is  her  own,  and  thou  must  flee. 
Ours  be  the  glory  at  her  call  to  die. 
But  quick  and  whole  God  needs  His  great  ally." 


DOMIXE,    QUO   VADIS?  33I 

And  Peter  said :   "  Do  lords  of  spear  and  shield 

Thus  leave  their  hosts  uncaptained  on  the  field, 

And  from  some  mount  of  prosi)ect  watch  afar 

The  havoc  of  the  hurricane  of  war? 

Yet,  if  He  wills  it.     .     .     .     Nay,  my  task  is  plain, — 

To  serve,  and  to  endure,  and  to  remain. 

But  weak  I  stand,  and  I  beseech  you  all 

Urge  me  no  more,  lest  at  a  touch  I  fall." 

There  knelt  a  noble  youth  at  Peter's  feet, 
And  like  a  viol's  strings  his  voice  was  sweet. 
A  suppliant  angel  might  have  pleaded  so, 
Crowned  with  the  splendor  of  some  starry  woe. 
He  said:   "  My  sire  and  brethren  yesterday 
The  heathen  did  with  ghastly  torments  slay. 
Pain,  like  a  worm,  beneath  their  feet  they  trod. 
Their  souls  went  up  like  incense  unto  God. 
An  offering  richer  yet,  can  Heaven  require? 

0  live,  and  be  my  brethren  and  my  sire." 

And  Peter  answered :    "  Son,  there  is  small  need 
That  thou  exhort  me  to  the  easier  deed. 
Rather  I  would  that  thou  and  these  had  lent 
Strength  to  uphold,  not  shatter,  my  intent. 
Already  my  resolve  is  shaken  sore. 

1  pray  thee,  if  thou  love  me,  say  no  more." 

And  even  as  he  spake,  he  went  apart. 
Somewhat  to  hide  the  l)rimming  of  his  heart, 
Wherein  a  voice  came  flitting  to  and  fro, 
That  now^  said,  "  Tarry !  "  and  anon  said,  "  Go !  " 
And  louder  every  moment,"  Go!  "  it  cried. 
And  "  Tarry !  "  to  a  whisper;  sank,  antl  died. 


332  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

And  as  a  leaf  when  summer  is  o'erpast 
Hangs  trembling  ere  it  fall  in  some  chance  blast, 
So  hung  his  trembling  purpose  and  fell  dead; 
And  he  arose,  and  hurried  forth,  and  fled, 
Darkness  conniving,  through  the  Capuan  Gate, 
From  all  that  heaven  of  love,  that  hell  of  hate, 
To  the  Campania  glimmering  wide  and  still. 
And  strove  to  think  he  did  his  Master's  will. 

But  spectral  eyes  and  mocking  tongues  pursued. 
And  with  vague  hands  he  fought  a  phantom  brood. 
Doubts,  like  a  swarm  of  gnats,  o'erhung  his  flight. 
And  "  Lord,"  he  prayed,  "  have  I  not  done  aright? 
Can  I  not,  living,  more  avail  for  Thee 
Than  whelmed  in  yon  red  storm  of  agony? 
The  tempest,  it  shall  pass,  and  I  remain, 
Not  from  its  fiery  sickle  saved  in  vain. 
Are  there  no  seeds  to  sow,  no  desert  lands 
Waiting  the  tillage  of  these  eager  hands. 
That  I  should  beastlike  'neath  the  butcher  fall, 
More  fruitlessly  than  oxen  from  the  stall? 
Is  earth  so  easeful,  is  men's  hate  so  sweet, 
Are  thorns  so  welcome  unto  sleepless  feet. 
Have  death  and  heaven  so  feeble  lures,  that  I, 
Choosing  to  live,  should  win  rebuke  thereby? 
Not  mine  the  dread  of  pain,  the  lust  of  bliss ! 
Master  who  judgest,  have  I  done  amiss?  " 

Lo,  on  the  darkness  brake  a  wandering  ray: 
A  vision  flashed  along  the  Appian  Way. 
Divinely  in  the  pagan  night  it  shone — 
A  mournful  Face — a  Figure  hurrying  on — 


THE    DEATH    OF    MOSES  333 

Though  haggard  and  dishevelled,  frail  and  worn, 
A  King,  of  David's  lineage,  crowned  with  thorn. 
"Lord,  whither  farest?"  Peter,  wondering,  cried. 
"  To  Rome,"  said  Christ,  "  to  be  re-crucified." 

Into  the  nigiit  the  vision  ebbed  like  breath; 

And  Peter  turned,  and  rushed  on  Rome  and  death. 


THE  DEATH  OF  MOSES 

GEORGE     ELIOT 

Moses,  who  spake  with  God  as  with  his  friend, 
And  ruled  his  people  with  the  twofold  power 
Of  wisdom  that  can  dare  and  still  be  meek, 
Was  writing  his  last  word,  the  sacred  name 
Unulteral)le  of  that  Eternal  Will 
\\'hich  was  and  is  and  e\'ermore  shall  be. 
Yet  was  his  task  not  finished,  for  the  flock 
Needed  its  shepherd  and  the  life-taught  sage 
Leaves  no  successor;    but  to  cliosen  men, 
The  rescuers  and  guides  of  Israel. 
A  death  was  given  called  the  Death  of  Grace, 
Which  freed  them  from  the  burden  of  the  flesh 
But  left  them  rulers  of  the  multitude 
And  loved  companions  of  the  lonely.     This 
Was  God's  last  gift  to  Moses,  this  the  hour 
When  soul  must  part  from  self  and  be  but  soul. 

God  spake  to  Gabriel,  the  messenger 

Of  mildest  death  that  draws  the  parting  life 

Gently,  as  when  a  little  rosy  child 

Lifts  up  its  lips  from  ofi  the  bowl  of  milk 


334  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

And  so  draws  forth  a  curl  that  dipped  its  gold 
In  the  soft  white — thus  Gabriel  draws  the  soul, 
"  Go  bring  the  soul  of  Moses  unto  me !  " 
And  the  awe-stricken  angel  answered,  "  Lord, 
How  shall  I  dare  to  take  his  life  who  lives 
Sole  of  his  kind,  not  to  be  likened  once 
In  all  the  generations  of  the  earth?" 
Then  God  called  Michael,  him  of  pensive  brow, 
Snow-vest  and  flaming  sword,  who  knows  and  acts: 
"  Go  bring  the  spirit  of  Moses  unto  me !  " 
But  Michael  with  such  grief  as  angels  feel, 
Loving  the  mortals  whom  they  succor,  pled: 
"  Almighty,  spare  me;   it  was  I  who  taught 
Thy  servant  Moses;   he  is  part  of  me 
As  I  of  thy  deep  secrets,  knowing  them." 

Then  God  called  Zamael,  the  terrible, 

The  angel  of  fierce  death,  of  agony 

That  comes  in  battle  and  in  pestilence 

Remorseless,  sudden  or  with  lingering  throes. 

And  Zamael,  his  raiment  and  broad  wings 

Blood-tinctured,  the  dark  lustre  of  his  eyes 

Shrouding  the  red,  fell  like  the  gathering  night 

Before  the  prophet.     But  that  radiance 

Won  from  the  heavenly  presence  in  the  mount 

Gleamed  on  the  prophet's  brow  and  dazzling  pierced 

Its  conscious  opposite :   the  angel  turned 

His  murky  gaze  aloof  and  inly  said : 

"  An  angel  this,  deathless  to  angel's  stroke." 

But  Moses  felt  the  subtly  nearing  dark : 

*'  Who  art  thou?   and  what  wilt  thou?  "  Zamael  then; 

"  I  am  God's  reaper;   through  the  fields  of  life 


THE   DEATH    OF   MOSES  335 

I  gather  ripened  and  iinripened  souls 

Both  willing  and  unwilHng.     And  I  come 

Now  to  reap  thee."     But  Moses  cried, 

Firm  as  a  seer  who  waits  the  trusted  sign : 

''  Reap  thou  the  fruitless  i)lant  and  common  herb— 

Not  him  who  from  the  womb  was  sanctified 

To  teach  the  law  of  purity  and  love." 

And  Zamacl  baf^ed  from  his  errand  fled. 

But  Moses,  pausing,  in  the  air  serene 

Heard  now  that  mystic  whisper,  far  yet  near, 

The  all-penetrating  Voice,  that  said  to  him, 

"  Moses,  the  hour  is  come  and  thou  must  die." 

"  Lord,  I  obey;   but  thou  remembcrest 

How  thou.  Ineffable,  didst  take  me  once 

Within  thy  orb  of  light  untouched  by  death." 

Then  the  Voice  answered,  "  Be  no  more  afraid: 

With  me  shall  be  thy  death  and  burial." 

So  Moses  waited,  ready  now  to  die. 

And  the  Lord  came,  invisible  as  a  thought, 

Three  angels  gleaming  on  his  secret  track, 

Prince  Michael,  Zamael,  Gabriel,  charged  to  guard 

The  soul-forsaken  body  as  it  fell 

And  bear  it  to  the  hidden  sepulchre 

Denied  forever  to  the  search  of  man. 

And  the  Voice  said  to  Moses:   "  Close  thine  eyes." 

He  closed  them.    "  Lay  thine  hand  upon  thine  heart 

And  draw  thy  feet  together."     He  obeyed. 

And  the  Lord  said,  "  O  spirit!   child  of  mine! 

A  hundred  years  and  twenty  thou  hast  dwelt 

Within  this  tabernacle  wrought  of  clay. 

This  is  the  end :   come  forth  and  flee  to  heaven." 


330  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

But  the  grieved  soul  with  plaintive  pleading  cried, 

"  I  love  this  body  with  a  clinging  love  : 

The  courage  fails  me,  Lord,  to  part  from  it." 

"  O  child,  come  forth !  for  thou  shalt  dwell  with  Tie 
About  the  immortal  throne  where  seraphs  joy 
In  growing  vision  and  in  growing  love." 

Yet  hesitating,  fluttering,  like  the  bird 

With  young  wing  weak  and  dubious,  the  soul 

Stayed.    But  behold  !   upon  the  death-dewed  lips 

A  kiss  descended,  pure,  unspeakable — ■ 

The  bodiless  Love  without  embracing  Love 

That  lingered  in  the  body,  drew  it  forth 

With  heavenly  strength  and  carried  it  to  heaven. 

But  now  beneath  the  sky  the  watchers  all, 

Angels  that  keep  the  homes  of  Israel 

Or  on  high  purpose  wander  o'er  the  world 

Leading  the  Gentiles,  felt  a  dark  eclipse: 

The  greatest  ruler  among  men  was  gone. 

And  from  the  westward  sea  was  heard  a  wail, 

A  dirge  as  from  the  isles  of  Javanim, 

Crying,  "  Who  now  is  left  upon  the  earth 

Like  him  to  teach  the  right  and  smite  the  wrong? 

And  from  the  East,  far  o'er  the  Syrian  waste, 

Came  slowlier,  sadlier,  the  answering  dirge: 

"  No  prophet  like  him  lives  or  shall  arise 

In  Israel  or  the  world  forevermore." 

But  Israel  waited,  looking  toward  the  mount, 
Till  with  the  deepening  eve  the  elders  came 
Saying,  "  His  burial  is  hid  with  God. 


'j " 


EVEN   THIS   SHALL    I'ASS   AWAY  337 

We  s\  od  far  off  and  saw  the  angels  lift 
His  CO  'pse  aloft  until  they  seemed  a  star 
That  burnt  itself  away  within  the  sky." 

The  people  answered  with  mute  orphaned  gaze 
Looking'  for  what  had  \anished  evermore. 
Then  through  the  gloom  without  them  and  within 
The  spirit's  shaping  light,  mysterious  speech, 
Invisible  Will  wrought  clear  in  sculptured  sound, 
The  thought-begotten  daughter  of  the  voice, 
Thrilled  on  their  listening  sense :    "  He  has  no  tomb. 
He  dwells  not  with  you  dead,  but  lives  as  Law." 


EVEN  THIS   SHALL  PASS  AWAY 

THEODORE    TILTON 

Once  in  Persia  reigned  a  king, 
Who  upon  his  signet  ring 
'Graved  a  maxim  true  and  wise, 
A\'hich,  if  held  before  the  eyes 
Gave  him  counsel  at  a  glance. 
Fit  for  every  change  and  chance. 
Solemn  words,  and  these  are  they: 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Trains  of  camels  through  the  sand 
Brought  him  gems  from  Samarcand; 
Fleets  of  galleys  through  the  seas 
Brought  him  jicarls  to  match  with  these. 
But  he  counted  not  his  gain 
Treasures  of  the  mine  '^r  main; 


558  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

"What  is  wealth?"  the  king  would  say; 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

In  the  revels  of  his  court 
At  the  zenith  of  the  sport, 
When  the  palms  of  all  his  guests 
Burned  with  clapping  at  his  jests, 
He,  amid  his  figs  and  wine. 
Cried :  "  Oh,  loving  friends  of  mine ! 
Pleasure  comes,  Lnt  not  to  stay; 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Fighting  on  a  furious  field. 
Once  a  javelin  pierced  his  shield. 
Soldiers  with  a  loud  lament 
Bore  him  bleeding  to  his  tent; 
Groaning  from  his  tortured  side, 
"  Pain  is  hard  to  bear,"  he  cried, 
"  But  with  patience,  day  by  day — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Towering  in  the  public  square, 
Twenty  cubits  in  the  air, 
Rose  his  statue  carved  in  stone. 
Then  the  king,  disguised,  unknown, 
Stood  before  his  sculptured  name, 
Musing  meekly,  "  What  is  fame? 
Fame  is  but  a  slow  decay — 
Even  this  shall  pass  away." 

Struck  with  palsy,  sere  and  old, 
Waiting  at  the  gates  of  gold, 


TIIK    REVENGE   01'    HAMISII  339 

Said  he,  with  his  dying  breath : 
"  Life  is  done,  bnt  what  is  death?" 
Then,  in  answer  to  the  king, 
Fell  a  snnbeani  on  his  ring, 
Showing  by  a  heavenly  ray — 
"  Even  this  shall  pass  away." 


THE  REVENGE  OF  HAMISH 

SIDNEY    LANIER 

It  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the 
bracken  lay; 
And  all  of  a  sudden  the  sinister  smell  of  a  man, 
Awaft  on  a  wind-shift,  wavered  and  ran 
Down    the    hill-side    and    sifted    along    through    the 
bracken  and  passed  that  way. 

Then  Nan  got  a-tremble  at  nostril ;  she  was  the  dainti- 
est doe; 
In  the  print  of  her  velvet  flank  on  the  velvet  fern 
She  reared,  and  rounded  her  ears  in  turn. 
Then  the  buck  leapt  up,  and  his  head  as  a  king's  to  a 
crown  did  go 

Full  high  in  the  breeze,  and  he  stood  as  if  Death  had 
the  form  of  a  deer; 
And  the  two  slim  does  long  lazily  stretching  arose. 
For  their  day-dream  slowlier  came  to  a  close, 
Till  they  woke  and  were  still,  breath-bound  with  wait- 
ing and  wonder  and  fear. 


_340  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

Then  Alan  the  huntsman  sprang  over  the  hillock,  the 
hounds  shot  by, 
The  does  and  the  ten-tined  buck  made  a  marvel- 
lous bound, 
The  hounds  swept  after  with  never  a  sound, 
But  Alan  loud  winded  his  horn  in  sign  that  the  quarry 
was  nigh. 

For  at  dawn  of  that  day  proud  Maclean  of  Lochbuy 
to  the  hunt  had  waxed  wild, 
And  he  cursed  at  old  Alan  till  Alan  fared  off  with 

the  hounds 
For  to  drive  him  the  deer  to  the  lower  glen-grounds : 
"  I  will  kill  a  red  deer,"  quoth  Maclean,  "  in  the  sight 
of  the  wife  and  the  child." 

So  gayly  he  paced  with  the  wife  and  the  child  to  his 
chosen  stand; 
But  he  hurried  tall  Hamish  the  henchman  ahead: 

"  Go  turn,"— 
Cried  Maclean — "  if  the  deer  seek  to  cross  to  the 
burn, 
Do  thou  turn  them  to  me :   nor  fail,  lest  thy  back  be 
red  as  thy  hand." 

Now  hard-fortuned  Hamish,  half  blown  of  his  breath 
with  the  height  of  the  hill, 
Was  white  in  the  face  when  the  ten-tined  buck  and 

the  does 
Drew  leaping  to-burn-ward ;  huskily  rose 
His  shouts,  and  his  nether  lip  twitched,  and  his  legs 
were  o'er-weak  for  his  will. 


THE-  REVENGE   OF   IIAMISII  341 

So  the  (leer  darted  lij^htly  by  Hamisli  and  bounded 
away  to  the  burn. 
But  Maclean  never  bating-  his  watch  tarried  wait- 
ing- below. 
Still  llaniish  hung  heavy  with  fear  for  to  go 
All  the  space  of  an  hour;    then  he  went,  and  his  face 
was  greenish  and  stern, 

And  his  eyes  sat  back  in  the  socket,  and  shrunken  the 
eyeballs  shone. 
As  withdrawn  from  a  vision  of  deeds  it  were  shame 

to  see. 
"  Now,  now,  grim  henchman,  what  is't  with  thee?  " 
Brake  Maclean,  and  his  wrath  rose  red  as  a  beacon  the 
wind  hath  upblown. 

"  Three  does  and  a  tcn-tined  buck  made  out,"  spoke 
Hamish,  full  mild, 
"  And  I  ran  for  to  turn,  but  my  breath  it  was  blown, 

and  they  passed; 
I  was  weak,  for  ye  called  ere  I  broke  me  my  fast." 
Cried  Maclean :    "  Now  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the  sight 
of  the  wife  and  the  child 

"  J  had  killed  if  the  gluttonous  kern  had  not  wrought 
me  a  snail's  own  wrong  I  " 
Then  he  sounded,   and   down  came   kinsmen   and 

clansmen  all : 
"  Ten  blows,  for  ten  tine,  on  his  back  let  fall, 
And  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  at  the 
bite  of  thong  !  " 


342  DRAMATIC   NARRATIVE 

So  Hamish  made  bare,  and  took  him  his  strokes;   at 
the  last  he  smiled. 
"  Now  I'll  to  the  burn,"  quoth  Maclean,  "  for  it 

still  may  be, 
If  a  slimmer-paunched  henchman  will  hurry  with  me, 
I  shall  kill  me  the  ten-tined  buck  for  a  gift  to  the  wife 
and  the  child !  " 

Then  the  clansmen  departed,  by  this  path  and  that; 
and  over  the  hill 
Sped  Maclean  with  an  outward  wrath  for  an  inward 

shame ; 
And  that  place  of  the  lashing  full  quiet  became; 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  stood  sad;    and  bloody- 
backed  Hamish  sat  still. 

But  look!    red  Hamish  has  risen;    quick  about  and 
about  turns  he. 
"  There  is  none  betwixt  me  and  the  crag-top !  "  he 

screams  under  breath. 
Then,  livid  as  Lazarus  lately  from  death, 
He  snatches  the  child  from  the  mother,  and  clambers 
the  crag  toward  the  sea. 

Now  the  mother  drops  breath;    she  is  dumb,  and  her 
heart  goes  dead  for  a  space. 
Till   the   motherhood,   mistress   of   death,    shrieks, 

shrieks  through  the  glen,    . 
And  that  place  of  the  lashing  is  live  with  men. 
And  Maclean,  and  the  gillie  that  told  him,  dash  up  in 
a  desperate  race. 


.    THE    KEVEXr.E    OF   HAMISH  343 

Not  a  breatli's  time  for  asking;   an  eye-glance  reveals 
all  the  tale  untold. 
They  follow  mad  Hamish  afar  up  the  crag  toward 

the  sea. 
And  the  lady  cries:    "  Clansmen,  run  for  a  fee! — 
Yon  castle  and  lands  to  the  two  Hrst  hands  that  shall 
hook  him  and  hold 

"  Fast  Ilaniish  back  from  the  brink!  " — and  ever  she 
flies  up  the  steep. 
And  the  clansmen  pant,  and  they  sweat,  and  they 

jostle  and  strain. 
But,  mother,  'tis  vain;    but.  father,  'tis  vain; 
Stern  Hamish  stands  bold  on  the  brink,  and  dangles 
the  child  o'er  the  deep. 

Now  a  faintncss  falls  on  the  men  that  run,  and  they 
all  stand  still. 
And  the  wife  prays  Hamish  as  if  he  were  God,  on 

her  knees, 
Crying:    "Hamish!    O   Hamish!    but  please,   but 
please 
For  to  spare  him  !  "  and  Hamish  still  dangles  the  child, 
with  a  wavering  will. 

On  a  sudden  he  turns;    with  a  sea-hawk  scream,  and 
a  gibe,  and  a  song, 
Cries:    "So;    I  will  spare  ye  the  child  if,  in  sight 

of  ye  all. 
Ten  blows  on  Maclean's  bare  back  shall  fall. 
And  ye  reckon  no  stroke  if  the  blood  follow  not  at 
the  bite  of  the  thong!  " 


344  DRAMATIC    NARRATIVE 

Then  Maclean  he  set  hardly  his  tooth  to  his  lip  that 
his  tooth  was  red, 
Breathed   short  for  a  space,   said:     "Nay,  but   it 

never  shall  be ! 
Let  me  hurl  off  the  damnable  hound  in  the  sea !  " 
But  the  wife :   "  Can  Hamish  go  fish  us  the  child  from 
the  sea,  if  dead? 

"  Say  yea! — Let  them  lash  nic,  Hamish?  " — "  Nay!  " 
— "  Husband,  the  lashing  will  heal; 
But,  oh,  who  will  heal  me  the  bonny  sweet  bairn  in 

his  grave? 
Could  ye  cure  me  my  heart  with  the  death  of  a 
knave? 
Quick!   Love!    I  will  bare  thee — so — kneel!"    Then 
Maclean  'gan  slowly  to  kneel 

With  never  a  word,  till  presently  downward  he  jerked 
to  the  earth. 
Then    the    henchman — he    that    smote    Hamish — 

would  tremble  and  lag; 
"  Strike,  hard !  "  quoth  Hamish,  full  stern,  from  the 
crag; 
Then  he  struck  him,  and  "  One!  "  sang  Hamish,  and 
danced  with  the  child  in  his  mirth. 

And  no  man  spake  beside  Hamish;    he  counted  each 
stroke  with  a  song. 
When  the  last  stroke  fell,  then  he  moved  him  a 

pace  down  the  height, 
And  he  held  forth  the  child  in  the  heartaching  sight 
Of  the  mother,  and  looked  all  pitiful  grave,  as  repent- 
ing a  wrong. 


THE    REVENGE   OF    HAMISH  345 

And  there  as  the  motherly  arms  stretched  out  with  the 
thanksgiving-  pra\er — 
And  there  as  the  mother  crept  up  with  a  fearful 

swift  pace. 
Till  her  fmger  nigli  felt  of  the  bairnie's  face — 
In  a  Hash  tierce  Hamish  turned  round  and  lifted  the 
child  in  the  air^ 

And  sprang  with  the  child  in  his  arms  from  the  hor- 
rible height  in  the  sea. 
Shrill   screeching.   "Revenge!"   in   the  wind-rush; 

and  pallid  Maclean, 
Age-feeble  with  anger  and  impotent  pain. 
Crawled  u])  on  the  crag,  and  lay  Hat,  and  locked  hold 
of  dead  roots  of  a  tree — 

And  gazed  hungrily  o'er,  and  the  blood  from  his  back 
drip-dripped  in  the  brine. 
And  a  sea-hawk  tlung  down  a  skeleton  tish  as  he 

flew, 
And  the  mother  stared  white  on  the  waste  of  blue. 
And  the  wind  drove  a  cloud  to  seaward,  and  the  sun 
began  to  shine. 


PATHETIC 

THE   SECRET  OF   DEATH 

EDWIN    ARNOLD 

When  they  came  unto  the  river-side 

A  woman — dove-eyed,  youngs,  witli  tearful  face 

And  lifted  hands — saluted,  bending  low: 

"  Lord!   thou  art  he,"  she  said,  "  who  yestcday 

Had  pity  on  me  in  the  fig-grove  here, 

Where  I  live  lone  and  reared  my  child;   but  he 

Straying  amid  the  blossoms  found  a  snake, 

Which  twined  about  his  wrist,  whilst  he  did  laugh 

And  tease  the  quick-forked  tongue  and  opened  mouth 

Of  that  cold  playmate.     Rut,  alas!   ere  long 

He  turned  so  pale  and  still,  I  could  not  think 

Why  he  should  cease  to  play,  and  let  my  breast 

Fall  from  his  lips.     And  one  said,  *  He  is  sick 

Of  poison;  '  and  another,  '  He  will  die.' 

But  I,  who  could  not  lose  my  precious  boy, 

Prayed  of  them  physic,  which  might  bring  the  light 

Back  to  his  eyes;   it  was  so  very  small. 

That  kiss-mark  of  the  serpent,  and  1  think 

It  could  not  hate  him.  gracious  as  he  was. 

Nor  hurt  him  in  his  sport.     And  some  one  said, 

'  There  is  a  holy  man  upon  the  hill — 

Lo !   now  he  passeth  in  the  yellow  robe — • 

347 


348  PATHETIC 

Ask  of  the  Rishi  if  there  be  a  cure 
For  that  which  ails  thy  son.'    Whereon  1  came 
Trembling  to  thee,  whose  brow  is  like  a  god's, 
And  wept  and  drew  the  face-cloth  from  my  babe, 
Praying  thee  tell  what  simples  might  be  good. 
And  thou,  great  sir !    didst  spurn  me  not,  but  gaze 
With  gentle  eyes  and  touch  with  patient  hand; 
Then  draw  the  face-cloth  back,  saying  to  me, 
'  Yea !  little  sister,  there  is  that  might  heal 
Thee  first,  and  him,  if  thou  couldst  fetch  the  thing; 
For  they  who  seek  physicians  bring  to  them 
What  is  ordained.    Therefore,  I  pray  thee,  find 
Black  mustard-seed,  a  tola;  only  mark 
Thou  take  it  not  from  any  hand  or  house 
Where  father,  mother,  child,  or  slave  hath  died: 
It  shall  be  well  if  thou  canst  find  such  seed.' 
Thus  didst  thou  speak,  my  Lord !  " 

The  Master  smiled 
Exceeding  tenderly.     "  Yea  !    I  spake  thus, 
Dear  Kisagotami !     But  didst  thou  find 
The  seed?  " 

"  I  went,  Lord,  clasping  to  my  breast 
The  babe,  grown  colder,  asking  at  each  hut — 
Here  in  the  jungle  and  toward  the  town — 
'  I  pray  you,  give  me  mustard,  of  your  grace, 
A  tola — black;  '  and  each  who  had  it  gave. 
For  all  the  poor  are  piteous  to  the  poor; 
But  when  I  asked,  '  In  my  friend's  household  here 
Hath  any  peradventure  ever  died — 
Husband,  or  wife,  or  child,  or  slave?  '  they  said: 
'  O  Sister!   what  is  this  you  ask?   the  dead 
Are  very  many,  and  the  living  few ! ' 


THE   SECRET   OF   DEATH  349 

So  with  sad  thanks  I  gave  the  mustard  back, 
And  praved  of  others;   but  the  others  said, 
'  Here  is  the  seed,  but  we  have  lost  our  slave !  ' 
'  Here  is  the  seed,  but  our  good  man  is  dead !  ' 
'  Here  is  some  seed,  but  he  that  sowed  it  died 
Between  the  rain-time  and  the  har\'esting !  ' 
Ah,  sir!   I  could  not  find  a  single  house 
Where  there  was  mustard-seed  and  none  had  died ! 
Therefore  I  left  my  child — who  would  not  suck 
Nor  smile — beneath  the  wild-vines  by  the  stream, 
To  see  thy  face  and  kiss  thy  feet,  and  pray 
Where  I  might  find  this  seed  and  find  no  death. 
If  now,  indeed,  my  baby  be  not  dead. 
As  I  do  fear,  and  as  they  said  to  me." 

"  My  sister!  thou  hast  found,"  tlie  Master  said, 
"  Searching  for  what  none  finds — that  bitter  balm 
I  had  to  give  thee.    He  thou  lovedst  slept 
Dead  on  thy  bosom  yesterday :   to-day 
Thou  know'st  the  whole  wide  world  weeps  with  thy 

woe : 
The  grief  which  all  hearts  share  grows  less  for  one. 
Lo ;    I  would  pour  my  blood  if  it  could  stay 
Thy  tears  and  win  the  secret  of  that  curse 
Which    makes    sweet   love    our   anguish,    and    which 

drives — 
O'er  fiowers  and  pastures  to  the  sacrifice — 
As  these  dumb  beasts  are  driven — men  their  lords. 
I  seek  that  secret:   burv  thou  thv  child!  " 


350  PATHETIC 

MOTHER  AND   POET 

(Turin — After  news  from  Gaeta.      i86i) 

elizabeth   barrett   browning 

Dead !    one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west  by  the  sea. 

Dead  !    both  my  boys !     When  you  sit  at  the  feast 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  uic! 

Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year, 

And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman,  men  said. 

But  this  woman,  -this,  who  is  agonized  here. 
The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme  on  in  her  head 
Forever  instead. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at?    Oh  vain! 

What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurting  her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a  smile  at  the  pain? 
Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt !    you  were  strong  as  you 
pressed. 

And  /  proud,  by  that  test. 

What  art's  for  a  woman?    To  hold  on  her  knees 
Both  darlings  !  to  feel  all  their  arms  round  her  throat 

Cling,  strangle  a  little !    To  sew  by  degrees. 

And  'broider  the  long  clothes  and  neat  little  coat ! 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 

To  teach  them    ...     It  stings  there.    /  made  them 
indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word  "  country."     /  taught  them, 
no  doubt. 


MOTHER   AND    TOP^T  35 1 

That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should  cHe  for  at  need. 
/  prated  of  Hberty.  rights,  and  about 
The  tyrant  turned  out. 

And  when  their  eyes  flashed    .    .    .    "  O  my  beautiful 
eyes!  " 
I  exulted!    nay,  let  them  go  forth  at  the  wheels 
Of  the  guns,  and  denied  not.     lUu  then  the  surprise, 
When  one  sits  ciuite  alone !     Then  one  weeps,  then 
one  kneels ! 

— God !   how  the  house  feels ! 

At  first  happy  news  came,  in  gay  letters  moiled 

With  mv  kisses,  of  camp-life  and  glory  and  how 
They  both  loved  me,  and  soon,  coming  home  to  be 
spoiled, 
In  return  would  fan  ofT  every  lly  from  my  brow 
With  their  green-laurel  bough. 

Then  was  triumph  at  Turin.  "  Ancona  was  free !  " 
And  some  one  came  out  of  the  cheers  in  the  street; 

With  a  face  pale  as  stone,  to  say  something  to  me. 
— My  Guido  was  dead  ! — I  fell  down  at  his  feet, 
While  they  cheered  in  the  street. 

I  bore  it — friends  soothed  me :    my  grief  looked  sub- 
lime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.    One  boy  remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  recalling  the  time 
When  the  first  grew  immortal,  while  both  of  us 
strained 

To  the  height  he  had  gained. 


352  PATHETIC 

And  letters  still  came, — shorter,  sadder,  more  strong, 

Writ  now  but  in  one  hand.    "  I  was  not  to  faint. 
One  loved  me  for  two     .    .    .    would  be  with  me  ere 
long: 
And  '  Viva  Italia  '  he  died  for,  our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 

My  Nanni  would  add  "  he  was  safe,  and  aware 

Of  a  presence  that  turned  off  the  balls    .    .    .    was 
imprest 
It  was  Guido  himself,  who  knew  what  I  could  bear. 
And  how  'twas  impossible,  quite  dispossessed. 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 

On  which  without  pause  up  the  telegraph  line 

Swept  smoothly  the  next  news  from  Gaeta : — Sliot. 
Tell  his  mother,  Ah,  ah, — "  his,"  "  their  "  mother:   not 
"  mine." 
No  voice  says  "  my  mother  "  again  to  me.     What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot? 

Are  souls  straight  so  happy  that,  dizzy  with  Heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affection,  conceive  not  of  woe? 

I  think  not.    Themselves  were  too  lately  forgiven 
Through  that  Love  and  Sorrow  which  reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  Below. 

O  Christ  of  the  seven  wounds,  who  look'dst  through 
the  dark 
To  the  face  of  Thy  mother !   consider,  I  pray. 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  desolate,  mark. 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die  with  eyes  turned 
away. 

And  no  last  word  to  say ! 


MOTHER    ANT)    POET  353 

Both  boys  dead!   but  that's  out  of  nature.     We  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house  must  always  keep 
one, 
'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to  a  wall. 

And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what  end  is  it  done 
If  we  ha\e  not  a  son? 

Ah.  all.  ah!    when  Gaeta's  taken,  what  then? 

When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no  more  at  her  sport 
Of  the  fire-balls  of  death  crashing  souls  out  of  men? 

When  your  guns  of  Cavalli  with  final  retort 
Have  cut  the  game  short, — 

When  \>nice  and  Rome  keep  their  new  jubilee, 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for  its  white,  green, 
and  red. 
When  you  have  your  country  from  mountain  to  sea, 
When  King  Victor  has  Italy's  crown  on  his  head, 
(And  I  have  my  dead,) 

What  then?    Do  not  mock  me.     Ah,  ring  your  bells 
low. 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly.     My  country  is  there, 
Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last  peak  of  snow : 
My  Italy's  there — with  my  brave  civic  Pair, 
To  disfranchise  despair. 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  children  in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain  in  self-scorn. 

But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will  wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this ! — and  we  sit  on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 


554  PATHETIC 

Dead ! — one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  west ! 

And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  east  by  the  sea ! 
Both  !  both  my  boys ! — If  in  keeping  the  feast 

You  want  a  great  song  for  your  Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  iiie! 


MICHAEL  * 
A   Pastoral  Poem 

WILLIAM    W^ORDSWORTH 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 

Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead  Ghyll, 

You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path, 

Your  feet  must  struggle;   in  such  bold  ascent 

The  pastoral  mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 

But,  courage !   for  beside  that  boist'rous  brook 

The  mountains  have  all  open'd  out  themselves, 

And  made  a  hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  there  is  seen;    but  such 

As  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 

With  a  few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and  kite? 

That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 

Nor  should  I  have  made  mention  of  this  dell 

But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 

Might  see  and  notice  not.     Beside  the  brook 

There  is  a  straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones ! 

And  to  that  place  a  story  appertains. 

Which,  though  it  be  ungarnish'd  with  events, 

Is  not  unfit,  I  deem,  for  the  fireside. 

Or  for  the  summer  shade,     it  was  the  first, 

*  See  Suggestions  for  Cutting,  p.  553. 


.MICIIAKL  355 

The  earliest  of  those  tales  that  spake  to  me 

Of  shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 

Whom  I  already  loved — not  verily 

For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 

Where  were  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  tale,  while  1  was  yet  a  boy 

Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 

Of  nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 

Of  natural  objects,  led  me  on  to  feel 

For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 

(.•\t  random  ar.d  imperfectly,  indeed,) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 

Tlierefore,  although  it  be  a  history 

Homely  and  rude,  1  will  relate  the  same 

For  the  delight  of  a  few  natural  hearts; 

And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 

Of  youthful  poets,  who  among  these  hills 

Will  be  my  second  self  when  I  am  gone. 

Upon  the  forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a  shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name; 
An  old  man.  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limbo 
His  bodily  frame  had  been,  from  youth  to  age, 
Of  an  unusual  strength;    his  mind  was  keen, 
Intense  and  frugal,  apt  tor  aii  affairs. 
And  in  his  shepherd's  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 
Hence  he  had  learn'd  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 
Of  blasts  of  e\'ery  tone;   and,  oftentimes. 
When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  south 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills 


35^  PATHETIC 

The  shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 

Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say; 

"  The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me  1  " 

And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm,  that  drives 

The  traveller  to  a  shelter,  summon'd  him 

Up  to  the  mountains :   he  had  been  alone 

Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists, 

That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past; 

And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  should  suppose 

That  the  green  valleys,  and  the  streams  and  rocks 

Were  things  indifferent  to  the  shepherd's  thoughts. 

Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 

The  common  air;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 

Had  climb'd  with  vigorous  steps;  which  had  impress'd 

So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 

Of  hardship,  skill,  or  courage,  joy,  or  fear; 

Which  like  a  book  preserved  the  memory 

Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 

Had  fed  or  shelter'd,  linking  to  such  acts, 

So  grateful  in  themselves,  the  certainty 

Of  honorable  gain;  these  fields,  these  hills, 

Which  were  his  living  being,  even  more 

Than  his  own  bk)od — what  could  they  less?  had  laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 

A  pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love. 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

His  days  had  not  been  pass'd  in  singleness: 
His  helpmate  was  a  comely  matron,  old — 
Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  stirring  life, 


MICHAEL  357 

Whose  heart  was  in  her  house :   two  wheels  she  had 

Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning  wool, 

That  small  for  tlax;   and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 

It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 

The  pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house. 

An  only  child,  who  had  been  born  to  them 

When  Michael,  telling  o'er  his  years,  began 

To  deem  that  he  was  old, — in  shepherd's  phrase. 

With  one  foot  in  the  grave.    This  only  son. 

With  two  brave  sheep-dogs,  tried  in  many  a  storm, 

The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 

Made  all  their  household.     I  may  truly  say, 

That  they  were  as  a  proverb  in  the  vale 

For  endless  industry.    Wlien  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 

The  son  and  father  were  come  home,  even  then 

Their  labor  did  not  cease;  unless  when  all 

Turn'd  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there, 

Each  with  a  mess  of  pottage  and  skimm'd  milk. 

Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes. 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.     Yet  when  their 

meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  son  was  named) 
And  his  old  father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fireside;   perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  housewife's  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe. 
Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chinmey's  edge. 
Which  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style. 


35b  PATHETIC 

Did  with  a  huge  projection  overbrow 

Large  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  Hght 

Of  day  grew  dim,  the  housewife  hung  a  lamp, 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  perform'd 

Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late, 

Surviving  comrade  of  uncounted  hours 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found 

And  left  the  couple  neither  gay,  perhaps, 

Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes, 

Living  a  life  of  eager  industry. 

And  now,  when  Luke  was  in  his  eighteenth  year, 

There  b}^  the  light  of  this  old  lamp  they  sat, 

Father  and  son,  while  late  into  the  night 

The  housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work. 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 

Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 

This  light  was  famous  in  its  neighborhood. 

And  was  a  public  symbol  of  the  life 

The  thrifty  pair  had  lived.    For,  as  it  chanced, 

Their  cottage  on  a  plot  of  rising  ground 

Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  north  and  south, 

High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dunmal-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  lake; 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 

And  so  far  seen,  the  house  itself,  by  all 

Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  the  "  Evening  Star," 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a  length  of  years, 
The  shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  helpmate;   but  to  Michael's  heart 


MICHAEL  359 

This  son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear, — 
Effect  which  might  perhaps  have  been  produced 
By  that  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  spirit  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all — 
Or  that  a  child,  more  than  all  other  gifts, 
Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 

From  such,  and  other  causes,  to  the  thoughts 
Of  the  old  man  his  only  son  was  now 
The  dearest  object  that  he  knew  on  earth. 
Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him, 
His  heart  and  his  heart's  joy  !    For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  A\hile  he  was  a  Ijabe  in  arms, 
Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  dalliance  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness;  and  he  had  rock'd 
His  cradle  with  a  woman's  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a  later  time,  ere  yet  the  boy 
Had  put  on  boy's  attire,  did  Michael  love 
(Albeit  of  a  stern,  unbending  mind) 
To  have  the  young  one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  shepherd's  stool. 
Beneath  that  large  old  oak,  which  near  their  door 
Stood, — and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade, 
Chosen  for  the  shearer's  covert  from  the  sun, 
Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  call'd 
The  ■■  Clipping  Tree,"  a  name  which  yet  it  bears. 


360  PATHETIC 

There,  while  they  two  were  sitting  in  the  shade, 
With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 
Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestow'd 
Upon  the  child,  if  he  disturb'd  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  shears. 

And  when  by  Heaven's  good  grace  the  boy  grew  up 
A  healthy  lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 
Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 
Then  Michael  from  a  winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a  sapling,  which  he  hoop'd 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout,  in  all 
Due  requisites,  a  perfect  shepherd's  staf¥, 
And  gave  it  to  the  boy;  wherewith  equipp*d 
He  as  a  w-atchman  oftentimes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 
And,  to  his  of^ce  prematurely  call'd, 
There  stood  the  urchin,  as  you  will  divine, 
Something  between  a  hindrance  and  a  help; 
And  for  this  cause,  not  always,  I  believe, 
Receiving  from  his  father  hire  of  praise; 
Though  nought  was  left  undone  which  staff  or  voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threat'ning  gestures  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts,  and  to  the  heightSj, 
Nor  fearing  toil  nor  length  of  weary  ways. 
He  with  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I  relate 
That  objects  which  the  shepherd  loved  before 


MICHAKL  361 

Were  clearer  now?   that  from  the  boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations — thini^s  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  music  to  the  wind; 
And  that  the  old  man's  heart  seem'd  born  again? 

Thus  in  his  father's  sight  the  boy  grew  up: 
And  now  when  he  had  rcach'd  his  eighteenth  year. 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  JMichacl's  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.     Long  before  the  time 
Of  which  I  speak,  the  shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  brother's  son,  a  man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means, — 
But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 
Had  press'd  upon  him, — and  old  Michael  now 
Was  summon'd  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 
A  grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 
Than  half  his  substance.    This  unlook'd-for  claim, 
At  the  first  hearing,  for  a  moment  took 
More  hope  out  of  his  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 
As  soon  as  he  had  gather'd  so  much  strength 
That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face, 
It  seem'd  that  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A  portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 
Such  was  his  first  resolve;   he  thought  again, 
And  his  heart  fail'd  him.     "  Isabel,"  said  he, 
Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 
"  I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 
And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God's  love 


.^62  PATHETIC 

Have  we  all  lived;  yet  if  these  fields  of  ours 

Should  pass  into  a  stranger's  hand,  I  think 

That  I  could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 

Our  lot  is  a  hard  lot;  the  sun  itself 

Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I, 

And  I  have  lived  to  be  a  fool  at  last 

To  my  own  family.     An  evil  man 

That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 

Were  false  to  us;  and,  if  he  were  not  false, 

There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 

Had  been  no  sorrow.     I  forgive  him — but 

'Twere  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 

When  I  began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 

Of  remedies  and  of  a  cheerful  hope. 

Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel :  the  land 

Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free; 

He  shall  possess  it  free  as  is  the  wind 

That  passes  over  it.    We  have,  thou  know'st. 

Another  kinsman — he  will  be  our  friend 

In  this  distress.     He  is  a  prosperous  man, 

Thriving  in  trade — and  Luke  to  him  shall  go, 

And  with  his  kinsman's  help  and  his  own  thrift 

He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 

May  come  again  to  us.     If  here  he  stay, 

What  can  be  done?    Where  every  one  is  poor, 

What  can  be  gained?  "    At  this  the  old  man  paused. 

And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 

Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 

"  There's  Richard  Bateman,"  thought  she  to  herself, 

"  He  was  a  parish  boy — at  the  church-door 

They  made  a  gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence. 

And  half-pennies,  wherewith  the  neighbors  bought 


MICHAEL  363 

A  basket,  which  they  fill'd  with  pedlar's  wares; 
And  with  this  basket  on  his  arm,  the  lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a  master  there, 
Who  out  of  many  chose  the  trusty  boy 
To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 
Beyond  the  seas,  where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 
And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 
And  at  his  birthplace  built  a  chapel  floor'd 
With  marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands." 
These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort, 
Pass'd  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 
And  her  face  brighten'd.    The  old  man  was  glad, 
And  thus  resumed  :  "  Well,  Isabel,  this  scheme 
These  two  days  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
W^e  have  enough — I  wish  indeed  that  I 
Were  younger, — but  this  hope  is  a  good  hope. 
Make  ready  Luke's  best  garments,  of  the  best 
Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night — 
If  he  could  go,  the  boy  should  go  to-night." 
Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a  light  heart.    The  housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
W^rought  on  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 
But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work;   for,  when  she  lav 
By  Michael's  side,  she  through  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep: 
And  when  they  rose  at  morning  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.    That  day  at  noon 


364  PATHETIC 

She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  "  Thou  must  not  go; 
We  have  no  other  child  but  thee  to  lose, 
None  to  remember — do  not  go  away. 
For  if  thou  leave  thy  father,  he  will  die." 
The  youth  made  answer  with  a  jocund  voice; 
And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears, 
Recover'd  heart.     That  evening  her  best  fare 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a  Christmas  fire. 

Next  morning  Isabel  resumed  her  work; 
(\nd  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appear'd 
A.S  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  spring;   at  length 
Tlie  expected  letter  from  their  kinsman  came, 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
His  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  boy; 
To  which  requests  were  added  that  forthwith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.    Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over;    Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbors  round; 
Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land  . 
A  prouder  heart  than  Luke's.     When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  return'd,  the  old  man  said, 
"  He  shall  depart  to-morrow."    To  this  word 
The  housewife  answer'd,  talking  much  of  things 
Which,  if  at  such  short  notice,  he  should  go, 
Would  surely  be  forgotten.     But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  w^as  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Greenhead  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  valley,  Michael  had  desigr/d 
^to  build  a  srieepiold;  and,  6efore  he  heard 


MICHAEL  365 

The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss, 

For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gather'd  up 

A  heap  of  stones,  which  by  the  streamlet's  edge 

Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 

With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walk'd; 

And  soon  as  they  had  reach'd  the  place  he  stopp'd, 

And  thus  the  old  man  spake  to  him: — "My  son, 

To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full  heart 

I  look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  the  same 

That  wert  a  promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth 

And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I  will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 

Of  our  two  histories;  'twill  do  thee  good 

When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I  should  speak 

Of  things  thou  canst  not  know  of.     After  thou 

First  cam'st  into  the  world — as  it  befalls 

To  new-born  infants — thou  didst  sleep  away 

Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  father's  tongue 

Then  fell  upon  thee.     Day  by  day  pass'd  on 

And  still  I  loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 

Than  when  I  heard  thee  by  our  own  fireside 

First  uttering,  without  words,  a  natural  tune; 

When  thou,  a  feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  mother's  breast.     Month  follow'd  month 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  pass'd. 

And  on  the  mountains,  else  I  think  that  thou 

Hadst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  father's  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke:  among  these  hills, 

As  well  thou  know'st,  in  us  the  old  and  young 

Have  play'd  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 

Lack  any  pleasure  which  a  boy  can  know." 


366  PATHETIC 

Luke  had  a  manly  heart;    but  at  these  words 

He  sobb'd  aloud.    The  old  man  grasp'd  his  hand, 

And  said,  "  Nay,  do  not  take  it  so — I  see 

That  these  are  things  of  which  I  need  not  speak. 

Even  to  the  utmost  I  have  been  to  thee 

A  kind  and  a  good  father;   and  herein 

I  but  repay  a  gift  which  I  myself 

Received  at  others'  hands;  for,  though  now  old 

Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I  still 

Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together;    here  they  lived, 

As  all  their  forefathers  had  done;   and  when 

At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loath 

To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I  wish'd  that  thou  should'st  live  the  life  they  lived. 

But  'tis  a  long  time  to  look  back,  my  son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  sixty  years. 

These  fields  were  burthen'd  when  they  came  to  me; 

Till  I  was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 

Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I  toil'd  and  toil'd;   God  bless'd  me  in  my  w^ork, 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  free. 

It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 

Another  master.     Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I  judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go."    At  this  the  old  man  paused; 

Then,  pointmg  to  the  stones  near  which  they  stood, 

Thus,  after  a  short  silence,  he  resumed : 

"  This  was  a  work  for  us;  and  now,  my  son, 

It  is  a  work  for  me.     But,  lay  one  stone — 

Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 

Nay,  boy,  be  of  good  hope ! — we  both  may  live 


MICHAEL  367 

To  see  a  better  day.     At  eighty-four 

I  still  am  strong  and  stout; — do  thou  tiiy  part, 

I  will  do  mine — I  will  begin  again 

With  many  tasks  that  were  resign'd  to  thee; 

Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms, 

Will  I  without  thee  go  again,  and  do 

All  wtn-ks  which  I  was  wont  to  do  alone, 

Before  I  knew  thy  face.     Heaven  bless  thee,  boy ! 

Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 

With  many  hopes — It  should  be  so — Yes — yes — 

I  knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a  wish 

To  leave  me,  Luke :   thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 

Only  by  links  of  love :  when  thou  art  gone. 

What  will  be  left  to  us !    But  I  forget 

My  purposes.     Lay  now  the  corner-stone, 

As  I  requested;    and  hereafter,  Luke, 

When  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 

Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  son. 

And  of  this  moment;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 

And  God  will  strengthen  thee :   amid  all  fear 

And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I  pray  that  thou 

Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  fathers  lived, 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 

Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.    Now,  fare  thee  well — 

When  thou  return'st,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 

A  work  which  is  not  here  :  a  covenant 

'Twill  be  between  us.    But,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I  shall  love  thee  to  the  last, 

And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave." 

The  shepherd  ended  here;  and  Luke  stoop'd  down, 
And,  as  his  father  had  requested,  laid 


368  PATHETIC 

The  first  stone  of  the  sheepfold.     At  the  sight 
The  old  man's  grief  broke  from  him;  to  his  heart 
He  press'd  his  son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept; 
And  to  the  house  together  they  return'd. 
Hush'd  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace 
Ere  the  night  fell:  with  morrow's  dawn  the  boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reach'd 
The  public  way,  he  put  on  a  bold  face; 
And  all  the  neighbors  as  he  pass'd  their  doors 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers, 
That  foUow'd  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A  good  report  did  from  their  kinsman  come, 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 
Which,  as  the  housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
"The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen." 
Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 
So,  many  months  pass'd  on:  and  once  again 
The  shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a  leisure  hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  sheepfold.     Meantime  Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty;  and  at  length 
He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses:  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a  hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  love; 
'Twill  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  break  the  heart: — old  Michael  found  it  so. 


MICHAEL  369 

I  have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 

Remember'd  the  old  man.  and  what  he  was 

Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 

His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 

Of  an  unusual  strength.     Among  the  rocks 

He  went,  and  still  look'd  up  upem  the  sun, 

And  listen'd  to  the  wind;   and  as  before 

Perform'd  all  kinds  of  labor  for  his  sheep. 

And  for  the  land,  his  small  inheritance. 

And  to  that  hollow  dell  from  time  to  time 

Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  fold  of  which 

His  flock  had  need,     "bis  not  forgotten  yet 

The  pity  which  was  then  in  e\ery  heart 

For  the  old  man — and  'tis  l)elieved  by  all 

That  many  and  many  a  day  he  thither  went 

And  ne\'er  lifted  up  a  single  stone. 

There,  by  the  sheepfold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 

Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  dog. 

Then  old,  beside  him,  l}ing  at  his  feet. 

The  length  of  full  se\-en  )ears  from  time  to  time 

He  at  the  building  of  his  sheepfold  wrought, 

And  left  the  work  unfinish'd  when  he  died. 

Three  }cars,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 

Survive  her  husband:   at  her  death  th'  estate 

Was  sold,  and  w  cut  into  a  stranger's  hand. 

Tlie  cottage  which  was  named  "  The  Evening  Star  " 

Is    gone  —  the    ploughshare    has   been    through    the 

ground 
On  which  it  stood  :   great  changes  have  been  wrought 
In  all  the  neighborhood  :  yet  the  oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  their  door;   and  the  remains 
Of  the  unllnish'd  sheepfold  tnav  be  seen 
Beside  the  boist'rous  biook  of  Greenhead  (Ihvll. 


370  PATHETIC 

IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 

ALFRED     LORD    TENNYSON 

Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen 

him  before, 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I  saw  him  come 

in  at  the  door. 
Fresh  from  the  surger3/-schools  of  France  and  of  other 

lands — 
Harsh  red  hair,   big  voice,  big  chest,   big  merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes,  but  they  said 

too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in  trying  to  save 

the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he  look'd  so  coarse 

and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who  would  break 

their  jests  on  the  dead, 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved  him  and 

fawn'd  at  his  knee — 
Drench'd  with  the  hellish  oorali — that  ever  such  things 

should  be ! 

Here  was  a  boy — I  am  sure  that  some  of  our  children 
would  die 

But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile,  and  the  com- 
forting eye — 

Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone  seem'd  out  of 
its  place — 


IN   THE   children's    HOSI'ITAL  3/1 

Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd — it  was  all  but  a  hope- 
less case : 
And  he  liandlcd  him  gently  enough;  but  his  voice  and 

his  lace  were  not  kind, 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had  seen  it  and 

made  up  his  mind. 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly  "  The  lad  will  need  little 

more  of  your  care." 
"  All  the  more  need,"  I  told  him,  "  to  seek  the  Lord 

Jesus  in  prayer; 
They  are  all  his  children  here,  and  I  pray  for  them 

all  as  my  own :  " 
But  he  turn'd  to  me,  "  Ay,  good  w'oman,  can  prayer 

set  a  broken  bone?  " 
Then  he  nuitter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I  know  that  I 

heard  him  say 
"  All  very  well — but  the  good  Lord  Jesus  has  had  his 

day." 

Had?   has  it  come?    It  has  only  dawn'd.     It  will  come 

by  and  by. 
O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  waids  if  the  hope  of  the 

world  were  a  lie? 
How^  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and  the  loathsome 

smells  of  disease 
But  that  He  said  "  Ye  do  it  to  me,  when  ye  do  it  to 

these  "? 

So  he  went.     And  we  past  to  this  ward  where  the 

younger  children  are  laid : 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  darling,  our  meek 

little  maid; 


372  PATHETIC 

Empty  you  see  just  now !    We  have  lost  her  who  loved 

her  so  much — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sensitive  plant  to 

the  touch; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often  moved  me  to 

tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart  I  have  found  in  a  child 

of  her  years — 
Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie;    you  used  to  send 

her  the  flowers; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with  'em,  talk  to 

'em  hours  after  hours ! 
They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the  works  of  the 

Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a  cowslip  out 

of  the  field; 
Flowers  to  these  "  spirits  in  prison  "  are  all  they  can 

know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like  the  waft  of 

an  Angel's  wing; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and  her  thin 

hands  crost  on  her  breast — 
Wan,  but  as  pretty  as  heart  can  desire,  and  we  thought 

her  at  rest. 
Quietly  sleeping — so  quiet,  our  doctor  said  "  Poor  lit- 
tle dear, 
Nurse,  I  must  do  it  to-morrow;  she'll  never  live  thro' 

it,  I  fear." 

I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as  far  as  the  head 

of  the  stair. 
Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward;    the  child  didn't  see  T 

was  there. 


IX   THE   CHILDREN  S    HOSPITAL  373 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so  grieved  and  so 

vext ! 
Emmie  had  heard  him.    Softly  she  call'd  from  her  cot 

to  the  next, 
"  He  says  I  shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O  Annie,  what 

shall  I  do?" 
Annie  consider'd.     "  If  I,"  said  the  wise  little  Annie, 

"  was  yon, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to  help  me,  for, 

Emmie,  you  see. 
It's  all  in  the  picture  there:    'Little  children  should 

come  to  me.'  " 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  I  find  that  it 

always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with  children  about 

his  knees.) 
"  Yes,  and  I  will,"  said  Emmie,  "  but  then  if  I  call 

to  the  Lord, 
How  should  he  know  that  it's  me?  such  a  lot  of  beds 

in  the  ward  !  " 
That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.     Again  she  consider'd 

and  said : 
"  Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and  you  leave  'em 

outside  on  the  bed — 
The  Lord  has  so  iiiucJi  to  see  to!    but,  Emmie,  you 

tell  it  him  plain. 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying  out  on  the  coun- 
terpane." 

I  had  sat  three  nights  by  the  child — I  could  not  watch 

her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel — I  felt  I  could  do  \t  no 

more 


374  PATHETIC 

That  was  my  sleeping-night,  but  I  thought  that  it 

never  would  pass. 
There  was  a  thunderclap  once,  and  a  clatter  of  hail 

on  the  glass, 
And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I  heard  as  I  tost 

about, 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the  storm  and  the 

darkness  without; 
My  sleep  was  broken  besides  with  dreams  of  the  dread- 
ful knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who  scarce  would 

escape  with  her  life; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd  she  stood 

by  me  and  smiled. 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and  we  went  to  see 

to  the  child. 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools:  we  believed  her 
asleep  again — ■ 

Her  dear,  long,  lean,  little  arms  lying  out  on  the  coun- 
terpane; 

Say  that  His  day  is  done!  Ah  why  should  we  care 
what  they  say? 

The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard  her,  and  Emmie 
had  past  away. 


father's  way  375 

FATPIER'S  WAY 

EUGENE    FIELD 

My  father  was  no  pessimist;    he  loved  the  things  of 

earth; 
Its  checrfuhiess  and  sunshine,  its  music  and  its  mirth; 
He  never  sighed  or  moped  around  whenever  things 

went  wrong; 
I  warrant  me  he'd  mock  at  fate  with  some  defiant  song. 
But,  being  he  warn't  much  on  tune,  whenever  times 

were  bkie. 
He'd  whistle  softly  to  himself  this  only  tune  he  knew: 


Now,  mother  when  she  learned  that  tune  which  father 

whistled  so, 
Would  say:    "There's  something  wrong  to-day  with 

Ephraim,  I  know; 
He  never  tries  to  make  believe  he's  happy  that  'ere  way 
But  that  I'm  certain  as  can  be  some  trouble  is  to  pay  !  " 
And  so,  betimes,  quite  natural  like,  to  us  observant 

youth 
There  seemed  suggestion  in  that  tune  of  deep  pathetic 

truth. 

When  Brother  William  joined  the  war  a  lot  of  us  went 

down 
To  see  the  gallant  soldier  boys  right  gayly  out  of  tow^n; 


376  PATHETIC 

A-comin'  home,   poor  mother  cried  as  if  her  heart 

would  break, 
And  all  us  children  too,  for  her,  and  not  for  William's 

sake ! 
But  father,  trudging  on  ahead,  his  hands  behind  him — ■ 

so, 
Kept  whistlin'  to  himself,  so  sort  of  solemn  like  and 

low. 

And  when  my  eldest  sister  Sue  was  married  and  went 

west. 
Seemed  like  it  took  the  tuck  right  out  of  mother  and 

the  rest; 
She  was  the  sunlight  in  our  home;    why,  father  used 

to  say 
It  wouldn't  seem  like  home  at  all  if  Sue  should  go 

away ! 
Yet,  when  she  went,  a-leavin'  us  all  sorrow  and  all  tears. 
Poor  father  whistled  lonesome  like,  and  went  to  feed 

the  steers. 

When  crops  were  bad,  and  other  ills  befell  our  homely 

lot. 
He'd  set  around  and  try  to  act  as  if  he  minded  not; 
And  when   came  death   and  bore  away   the  one  he 

worshipped  so, 
How  vainly  did  his  lips  belie  the  heart  benumbed  with 

woe ! 
You  see  the  tell-tale  whistle  told  a  mood  he'd  not 

admit; 
He'd  always  quit  his  whistlin'  when  he  thought  we 

noticed  it. 


YES   OR   NO  377 

I'd  like  to  see  that  stooping  form  and  hoary  head 
again; 

To  see  the  honest,  hearty  smile  that  cheered  his  fellow- 
men; 

Oh,  could  I  kiss  the  kindly  lips  that  spake  no  creature 
wrong. 

And  share  the  rapture  of  that  heart  that  overflowed 
with  song; 

Oh,  could  I  hear  the  little  tune  he  whistled  long  ago, 

When  he  did  battle  with  the  griefs  he  would  not  have 
us  know! 


YES   OR   NO 

HAL    LOUTHER 

[This  poem  is  suggested  by  an  old  Dutch  custom  which  pre- 
scribes to  the  wooer  a  symbol  of  acceptance  or  refusal.  As  his 
mistress  sits  by  the  fire  he  waits  for  her  to  replenish  it.  If  this  be 
done  it  is  a  sign  that  his  suit  is  successful ;  but  if  she  lets  the  em- 
bers die  out  he  knows  there  is  no  hope.] 

I. 

Leans  he  'gainst  the  old  Dutch  ingle, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  fear; 
Firelight  shadows  dancing  mingle, 
Weave  their  fret-work  far  and  near, 
Strong  the  limb,  yet  shapely  moulded, 
Features  bronzed  with  ocean  tan, 
Stands  he  there  with  arms  enfolded, 
Hoping  blessing — fearing  ban. 


370  PATHETIC 

Will  he  dare  to  learn  by  asking 
Will  she  be  his  comely  wife? 
'Tis  the  fire  so  warmly  basking, 
Holds  the  secret  of  his  life ! 
When  the  ruddy  embers  dwindle 
Should  the  maiden  wish  to  bless 
She  will  then  the  flames  rekindle, 
And  that  act  shall  whisper — "  yes." 

II. 

Sits  she  there  so  cjuaintly  pretty 
In  her  cap  and  waistless  gown, 
With  her  face  all  ripe  with  blushes 
And  her  eyes  turned  meekly  down. 
Hears  no  sound,  the  clock  still  ticking 
Many  a  weary  hearted  moan, 
As  in  sympathetic  sorrow, 
For  the  time  already  flown. 
Keen  and  anxiously  he  watches. 
While  the  embers,  sinking  low. 
Steep  the  maiden's  graceful  figure 
In  a  rosy  tinted  glow. 
Well  she  knows  his  errand  thither. 
And  the  love  flow'rs  in  his  breast; 
Will  she  bid  their  blossoms  wither? 
Shall  they  bloom — or  die  apart? 

III. 

Sits  she  there  in  golden  beauty, 
Gently  rocking  to  and  fro, 
Till  at  last  the  struggling  embers. 
With  their  last  spark  answer,  ''  No !  '^ 


YES  OR  NO  379 

One  long  sigh — one  sob  half  broken- 
Stirs  the  sailor's  stricken  breast. 
Told  his  fate,  yet  no  word  spoken — 
All  his  life  one  long  unrest. 
Moving  slowly  toward  the  threshold 
With  a  rugged  kind  of  grace, 
Grasps  the  latch  and  sadly  turning, 
Looks  a  look  that  clasps  her  face. 
Long,  too  long  his  farewell  taking, 
In  that  glance  of  yearning  light; 
Then  with  heart  all  crushed  and  bleeding, 
Drifts  into  the  silent  night. 


HUMOROUS 

THE  V-A-S-E 

JAMES    JEFFREY     ROCHE 

From  the  madding  crowd  they  stand  apart. 
The  maidens  four  and  the  Work  of  Art; 

And  none  might  tell  from  sight  alone 
In  which  had  Culture  ripest  grown, — 

The  Gotham  Million  fair  to  see, 
The  Philadelphia  Pedigree, 

The  Boston  mind  of  azure  hue, 

Or  the  soulful  Soul  from  Kalamazoo, — 

For  all  loved  Art  in  a  seemly  way. 
With  an  earnest  soul  and  a  capital  A. 

Long  they  worshipped;   but  no  one  broke 
The  sacred  stillness,  until  up  spoke 

The  Western  one  from  the  nameless  place, 
Who  blushing  said  :   "  What  a  lovely  vace !  * 

Over  three  faces  a  sad  smile  flew, 

And  they  edged  away  from  Kalamazoo. 

But  Gotham's  haughty  soul  was  stirred 
To  crush  the  stranger  with  one  small  word. 

381 


382  HUMOROUS 

Deftly  hiding  reproof  in  praise, 

She  cries :    "  'Tis,  indeed,  a  lovely  vaze !  '* 

But  brief  her  unworthy  triumph  when 
The  lofty  one  from  the  home  of  Penn, 

With  the  consciousness  of  two  grandpapas, 
Exclaims :    "  It  is  quite  a  lovely  vahs !  ''' 

And  glances  round  with  an  anxious  thrill, 
Awaiting  the  word  of  Beacon  Hill. 

But  the  Boston  maid  smiles  courteously,/ 
And  gently  murmurs :    "  Oh,  pardon  me  \\\ 

"  I  did  not  catch  your  remark,  because 

I  was  so  entranced  with  that  charming  vaws ! 


FALSE   LOVE  AND   TRUE   LOGIC 

LAMAN     BLANCHARD 

TJie  Disconsolate. 

My  heart  will  break — I'm  sure  it  will: 
My  lover,  yes,  my  favorite — he 

Who  seemed  my  own  through  good  and  ill- 
Has  basely  turned  his  back  on  me. 

The  Comforter. 

Ah!    silly  sorrower,  weep  no  more; 

Your  lover's  turned  his  back,  we  see; 
But  you  had  •turned  his  head  before 

And  noiv  he's  as  he  ought  to  be. 


WHAT    MV    LOVER   SAID  383 

WHAT   MY    LOVER   SAID 

HOMKR    GREENE 

By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twiHg^ht  gloom, 

In  the  orchard  |)ath  he  met  me; 
In  the  tall,  wet  grass,  with  its  faint  perfume, 
And  I  tried  to  pass,  Init  he  made  no  room, 

Oh,  I  tried,  but  he  would  not  let  me. 
So  I  stood  and  blushed  till  the  grass  grew  red, 

With  ni}'  face  bent  down  above  it, 
While  he  took  my  hand  as  he  whispering  said— = 
(How  the  clover  lifted  each  pink,  sweet  head, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  clover  in  bloom,  I  love  it !) 

In  the  high,  wet  grass  went  the  path  to  hide, 

And  the  low,  wet  leaves  hung  over; 
But  I  could  not  pass  upon  either  side, 
For  I  found  myself,  when  I  vainly  tried, 

In  the  arms  of  my  steadfast  lover. 
And  he  held  me  there  and  he  raised  my  head. 

While  he  closed  the  path  before  me, 
And  he  looked  down  into  my  eyes  and  said — 
(How  the  leaves  bent  down  from  the  boughs  o'erhead. 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said, 

Oh,  the  leaves  hanging  lowly  o'er  me !) 

Had  he  moved  aside  but  a  little  way, 

I  could  surelv  then  have  passed  him; 
And  he  knew  I  never  could  wish  to  stay, 
And  would  not  have  heard  what  he  had  to  say. 
Could  I  only  aside  have  cast  him. 


3^4  HUMOROUS 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  moments  sped, 
And  the  searching  night  wind  found  us, 

But  he  drew  me  nearer  and  softly  said — 

(How  the  pure,  sweet  wind  grew  still,  instead. 

To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  whispering  wind  around  us !) 

I  am  sure  he  knew  when  he  held  me  fast, 

That  I  must  be  all  unwilling; 
For  I  tried  to  go,  and  I  would  have  passed. 
As  the  night  was  come  with  its  dew,  at  last. 

And  the  sky  with  its  stars  was  filling. 
But  he  clasped  me  close  when  I  would  have  fled, 

And  he  made  me  hear  this  story. 
And  his  soul  came  out  from  his  lips  and  said — 
(How  the  stars  crept  out  where  the  white  moon  led 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said; 

Oh,  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  glory !) 

I  know  that  the  grass  and  the  leaves  will  not  tell. 

And  I'm  sure  that  the  wind,  precious  rover. 
Will  carry  my  secret  so  safely  and  well 

That  no  being  shall  ever  discover 
One  word  of  the  many  that  rapidly  fell 

From  the  soul-speaking  lips  of  my  lover; 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  that  looked  over 
Shall  never  reveal  what  a  fairy-like  spell 
They  wove  round  about  us  that  night  in  the  dell. 

In  the  path  through  the  dew-laden  clover. 
Nor  echo  the  whispers  that  made  my  heart  swell 

As  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  lover. 


MV    RIVAL  3^5 

MY  RIVAL 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

I  go  to  concert,  party,  ball — what  profit  is  in  these? 

I  sit  alone  against  the  wall  and  strive  to  look  at  ease. 

The  incense  that  is  mine  by  right  they  burn  before  her 
shrine; 

And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen  and  she  is  forty- 
nine. 

I  cannot  check  my  girlish  blush,  my  color  comes  and 

goes; 
I  redden  to  my  finger-tips,  and  sometimes  to  my  nose. 
But  she  is  white  where  white  should  be,  and  red  where 

red  should  shine. 
The  blush  that  flies  at  seventeen  is  fixed  at  forty-nine. 

I  wish  I  had  her  constant  cheek;  I  wish  that  I  could 
sing 

All  sorts  of  funny  little  songs,  not  quite  the  proper 
thing. 

I'm  very  gaiichc  and  very  shy,  her  jokes  aren't  in  my 
line; 

And,  worst  of  all,  I'm  seventeen,  while  she  is  forty- 
nine. 

The  young  men  come,  the  young  men  go,  each  pink 

and  white  and  neat. 
She's  older  than  their  mothers,  but  they  grovel  at  her 

feet. 
They  walk  beside  her  'rickshaw  wheels — none   ever 

walk  by  mine; 
And  that's  because  I'm  seventeen,  and  she  is  fortv-nine. 


380  HUMOROUS 

She  rides  with  half  a  dozen  men  (she  calls  them 
"  boys  "  and  "  mashes  "), 

I  trot  along  the  Mall  alone;  my  prettiest  frocks  and 
sashes 

Don't  help  to  fill  my  programme-card,  and  vainly  I 
repine 

From  ten  to  two  a.  m.  Ah,  me!  would  I  were  forty- 
nine. 

She    calls   me    "  darling,"    "  pet,"    and    "  dear,"    and 

*'  sweet  retiring  maid." 
I'm  always  at  the  back,  I  know,  she  puts  me  in  the 

shade. 
She  introduces  me  to  men,  "  cast  "  lovers,  I  opine. 
For  sixty  takes  to  seventeen,  nineteen  to  forty-nine. 

But  even  she  must  older  grow  and  end  her  dancing 

days, 
She  can't  go  on  forever  so  at  concerts,  balls,  and  plays. 
One  ray  of  priceless  hope  I  see  before  my  footsteps 

shine : 
Just  think,  that  she'll  bv  eighty-one  when  I  am  forty- 

nine! 

"MA'S  ATTIC" 

FORREST     CRISSEY 

Sometimes  when  I've  Deen  'spesh'ly  good 
An'  brought  in  heaps  an'  heaps  of  wood, 
An'  kept  f'om  muddyin'  up  the  floor, 
Hain't  dragged  my  feet  nor  slammed  the  door, 
Ma  says  to  me :  "  If  you'll  take  care 
Not  to  upset  the  things  up  there 


"  MA'S   ATTIC  "  3^7 

I  wouldn't  wonder  if  you  may 

Go  to  the  attic  for  your  play." 

Gee !     Don't  I  like  that  attic-room, 

With  grandma's  spinning-wheel  and  loom! 

I  tell  you  it's  the  bestest  place 

For  boys  to  play — just  lots  of  space, 

An'  yet  it's  full  of  truniiJcry 

That  interests  a  boy  like  me. 

Bags  of  good  things  to  eat  up  there — 

If  you  just  liappen  to  know  where ! — 

Sweet  flag  and  cherries  that  I  got 

Out  of  old  Thompson's  pasture  lot 

Along  th'  banks  of  th'  Mazon, 

An'  brought  'em  home  to  nibble  on. 

There's  Grandpa  Dowd's  old  hat  and  cane-- 

I  wisht  he'd  visit  us  again ! — 

But  best  of  all  what  ma  calls  "  truck  " 

Is  my  great  grandpa's  sword  that's  stuck 

Behind  the  chest  he  took  to  sea.. 

It's  just  a  little  long  for  me, 

But  when  I  climb  upon  the  lid 

Of  that  old  chest  I'm  Captain  Kidd; 

An'  then  I  swing  the  sword  an'  say 

Bad  pirate  words — but  just  in  play! 

Who  cares  for  spider-webs  an'  dirt 

That's  in  the  attic?    They  don't  hurt! 

They  hain't  another  place  to  play 

Like  attics  on  a  rainy  day ! 


7.6iS  HUMOROUS 

IN  AN  ATELIER 

THOMAS    BAILEY    ALDRICH 

I  pray  you,  do  not  turn  your  head;  and  let  your  hands 

lie  folded,  so. 
It  was  a  dress  like  this,  wine-red,  that  troubled  Dante, 

long  ago. 
You  don't  know  Dante?     Never  mind.     He  loved  a 

lady  w^ondrous  fair — 
His  model?    Something  of  the  kind.    I  wonder  if  she 

had  your  hair! 

I  wonder  if  she  looked  so  meek,  and  was  not  meek 

at  all  (my  dear, 
I  want  that  side-light  on  your  cheek).    He  loved  her,. 

it  is  very  clear, 
And  painted  her,  as  I  pajnt  you,  but  rather  better,  on 

the  whole 
(Depress  your  chin ;    yes,   that  will  do) :    he  was  a 

painter  of  the  soul! 

(And  painted  portraits,  too,  I  think,  in  the  Inferno 

— devilish  good ! 
I'd  make  some  certain  critics  blink  had  I  his  method 

and  his  mood.) 
Her  name  was  (Fanny,  let  your  glance  rest  there,  by 

that  majolica  tray) — 
Was   Beatrice;    they   met   by   chance — they   met   by 

chance,  the  usual  wav. 


IN   AN   ATELIER  389 

(As  you  and  I  met,  months  ago,  do  you  remember? 
How  your  feet 

Went  crinkle-crinkle  on  the  snow  along  the  bleak  gas- 
lighted  street ! 

An  instant  in  the  drug-store's  glare  you  stood  as  in 
a  golden  frame, 

And  then  I  swore  it — then  and  there — to  hand  your 
sweetness  down  to  fame.) 

They  met,  and  loved,  and  never  wed  (all  this  was  long 
before  our  time); 

And  though  they  died,  they  are  not  dead — such  end- 
less youth  gives  mortal  rhyme ! 

Still  walks  the  earth,  with  haughty  mien,  great  Dante, 
in  his  soul's  distress; 

And  still  the  lovely  Florentine  goes  lovely  in  her  wine- 
red  dress. 

You  -'o  not  understand  at  all?     He  was  a  poet;    on 

his  page 
He  drew^  her;    and,  though  kingdoms  fall,  this  lady 

lives  from  age  to  age : 
A  poet — that  means  painter  too,  for  words  are  colors, 

rightly  laid; 
And  they  outlast  our  brightest  hue,  for  varnish  cracks 

and  crimsons  fade. 

The  poets — they  are  lucky  ones!   when  zve  are  thrust 

upon  the  shelves. 
Our  works  turn  into  skeletons  almost  as  quickly  as 

ourselves; 


390  HUMOROUS 

For  our  poor  canvas  peels  at  length,  at  length  is  prize(J 

— when  all  is  bare : 
"What   grace!"   the   critics   cry,   "what   strength!' 

when  neither  strength  nor  grace  is  there. 

Ah,  Fanny,  I  am  sick  at  heart,  it  is  so  little  one  can  do; 
We  talk  our  jargon — live  for  Art !   Fd  much  prefer  to 

live  for  you. 
How  dull  and  lifeless  colors  are!    you  smile,  and  all 

my  picture  lies : 
I  wish  that  I  could  crush  a  star  to  make  a  pigment 

for  your  eyes. 

Yes,  child,  I  know  Fm  out  of  tune;   the  light  is  bad; 

the  sky  is  gray : 
Fll  paint  no  more  this  afternoon,  so  lay  your  royal 

gear  away. 
Besides,  you're  moody — chin  on  hand — I  know  not 

what — not  in  the  vein  : 
Not  like  Anne  Bullen,  sweet  and  bland  you  sit  there 

smiling  in  disdain. 

Not  like  the  Tudor's  radiant  Queen,  unconscious  of 

the  coming  woe. 
But  rather  as  she  might  have  been,  preparing  for  the 

headsman's  blow. 
So,  I  have  put  you  in  a  miff — sitting  bolt-upright, 

wrist  on  wrist. 
How  should  you  look?     Why,  dear,  as  if — somehow 

— as  if  you'd  just  been  kissed  1 


A  SONNET  IN   DIALOGUE  39I 

A  SONNET  IN   DIALOGUE 

AUSTIN    DOBSON 

Frank  (on  ilic  lawn). 
Come  to  the  terrace,  May — the  sun  is  low. 

May  (ill  ihc  house). 
Thanks,  I  prefer  my  Browning  here  instead. 

Frank. 
There  are  two  peaches  by  the  strawberry-bed. 

May. 
They  will  be  riper  if  we  let  them  grow. 

Frank. 
Then  the  Park-aloe  is  in  bloom,  you  know. 

May. 
Also,  her  Majesty  Queen  Anne  is  dead. 

Frank. 
But,  surely.  May,  your  pony  must  be  fed. 

May. 

And  was,  and  is.    I  fed  him  hours  ago. 
'Tis  useless,  Frank,  you  see  I  shall  not  stir. 

Frank. 
Still.  I  had  something  you  would  like  to  hear. 


392  HUMOROUS 

May. 
No  doubt  some  new  frivolity  of  men. 

Frank. 

Nay, — 'tis  a  thing  the  gentler  sex  deplores 
Chiefly,  I  think    .     .     . 

May  (coming  io  tJie  window). 
What  is  this  secret,  then? 

Frank  (mysteriously). 
There  are  no  eyes  more  beautiful  than  yours! 


THE  MODERN   ROMANS 

CHARLES   F.   JOHNSON 

Under  the  slanting  light  of  the  yellow  sun  of  October, 

A  "  gang  of  Dagos  "  were  working  close  by  the  side 
of  the  car  track. 

Pausing  a  moment  to  catch  a  note  of  their  liquid 
Italian, 

Faintly  I  heard  an  echo  of  Rome's  imperial  accents, 

Broken-down  forms  of  Latin  words  from  the  Senate 
and  Forum, 

Now  smoothed  over  by  use  to  the  musical  lingua 
Romana. 

Then  came  the  thought,  Why  these  are  the  heirs  of 
the  conquering  Romans; 

Tliese  are  the  sons  of  the  men  who  founded  the  Em- 
pire of  Caesar; 


THE    MODERN    ROMANS  393 

These  are  they  whose  fathers  carried  the  conquering 
eagles 

Over  all  Gaul  and  across  the  sea  to  Ultima  Thule. 

The  race-type  persists  unchanged  in  their  eyes  and 
profiles  and  figures, — 

Muscular,  short,  and  thick-set,  with  prominent  noses, 
recalling 

"  Romanos  rcritm  domiiws,  gcntcmquc  togatam."' 

See,  Labienus  is  swinging  a  pick  with  rhythmical  mo- 
tion; 

Yonder  one  pushing  the  shovel  might  be  Julius  Caesar, 

Lean,  deep-eyed,  broad-browed,  and  bald,  a  man  of 
a  thousand; 

Farther  along  there  stands  the  jolly  Horatius  Flaccus; 

Grim  and  grave,  with  rings  in  his  ears,  see  Cato  the 
Censor; 

And  the  next  has  precisely  the  bust  of  Cenius  Pom- 
peius. 

Blurred  and  worn  the  surface,  I  grant,  and  the  coin 
is  but  copper; 

Look  more  closely,  you'll  catch  a.  hint  of  the  old  super- 
scription,— 

Perhaps  the  stem  of  a  letter,  perhaps  a  leaf  of  the 
laurel. 

On  the  side  of  the  street,  in  proud  and  gloomy  seclu- 
sion, 

"  Bossing  the  job,"  stood  a  Celt,  the  race  enslaved 
by  the  legions. 

Sold  in  the  market  of  Rome,  to  meet  the  expenses  of 
Caesar. 


394  HUMOROUS 

And  as   I   loitered,   the   Celt  cried,   "  'Tind   to  your 

worruk,  ye  Dagos, — 
Full  up  yer  shovel,   Paythro,  ye  haythen,    I'll  dock 

yees  a  quarther." 
This  he  said  to  the  one  who  resembled  the  great  Im- 

perator; 
Meekly  the  dignified  Roman  kept  on  patiently  digging. 

Such  are  the  changes  and  chances  the  centuries  bring 
to  the  nations. 

Surely  the  ups  and  downs  of  this  world  are  past  cal- 
culation. 

How  the  races  troop  o'er  the  stage  in  endless  proces- 
sion! 

Persian,  and  Arab,  and  Greek,  and  Hun,  and  Roman, 
and  Vandal, 

Master  the  world  in  turn  and  then  disappear  in  the 
darkness. 

Leaving  a  remnant  as  hewers  of  wood  and  drawers  of 
water. 

"  Possibly" — this  I  thought  to  myself — "  the  yoke  of 
the  Irish 

May  in  turn  be  lifted  from  us  in  the  tenth  generation. 

Now  the  Celt  is  on  top, — but  time  may  bring  his 
revenges, 

Turning  the  Fenian  down  once  more  to  be  '  bossed  by 
a  Dago.'  " 


THE    USUAL   WAY  395 

THE   USUAL   WAY 

ANONYMOUS 

There  was  once  a  little  man,  and  his  rod  and  Hne  he 

took, 
For  he   said,   "  I'll  go  a-fishing  in   the   neighboring 

brook." 
And  it  chanced  a  little  maiden  was  walking  out  that 

day, 

And  they  met — in  the  usual  way. 

Then  he  sat  him  down  beside  her,  and  an  hour  or  two 

went  by, 
But  still  upon  the  grassy  brink  his  rod  and  line  did  lie; 
"  I  thought,"  she  shyly  whispered,  "  you'd  be  fishing 

all  the  day  !  " 

And  he  was — in  the  usual  way. 

So  he  gravely  took  his  rod  in  hand  and  threw  the 

line  about. 
But  the  fish  perceived  distinctly  he  was  not  looking 

out; 
And  he  said,  "  Sweetheart,  I  love  you,"  but  she  said 

she  could  not  stay. 

But  she  did — in  the  usual  way. 

Then  the  stars  came  out  above  them,  and  she  gave  a 

little  sigh 
As  they  watched  the  silver  ripples  like  the  moments 

running  by; 
"We  must  say  good-by,"  she  whispered  by  the  alders 

old  and  gray. 

And  they  did — in  the  usual  way. 


396  HUMOROUS 

And  clay  by  day  beside  the  stream,  they  wandered  to 

and  fro, 
And  day  by  day  the  fishes  swam  securely  down  below, 
Till  this  little  story  ended,  as  such  little  stories  may, 
Very  much — in  the  usual  way. 

And  now  that  they  are  married,  do  they  always  bill 

and  coo? 
Do  they  never  fret  and  quarrel,  like  other  couples  do? 
Does  he  cherish  her  and  love  her?  does  she  honor  and 

obey? 

Well,  they  do — in  the  usual  way. 


HE   UNDERSTOOD 

.   ANNA    V.    CULBERTSON 

Robin  rashly  kissed  my  hand. 
Thereupon  I  gave  command, 
"  Leave  me,  sir,  or  else  refrain 
Doing  this  bold  deed  again. 
Once  for  all,  pray  understand. 
You  do  wrong  to  kiss  my  hand." 
Robin  heeded  my  command — ■ 
Stayed,  nor  kissed  again  my  hand. 
Yet  he  doth  not  mope  or  sigh; 
What  can  be  the  reason  why? 
This  I  told  him :    "  Understand, 
You  do  wrong  to  kiss — my  hand." 


AN    ELECTIVE   COURSE  39/ 


AN    ELECTIVE   COURSE 

(Lines  found  among  the  papers  of  a  Harvard  under- 
graduate) 

THOMAS   BAILEY    ALDRICH 

The  bloom  that  Hes  on  Hilda's  cheek 

Is  all  my  Latin,  all  my  Greek; 

The  only  sciences  I  know 

Are  frowns  that  gloom  and  smiles  that  glow; 

Siberia  and  Italy 

Lie  in  her  sweet  geography; 

No  scholarship  have  I  but  such 

As  teaches  me  to  love  her  much. 

Why  should  I  strive  to  read  the  skies, 

Who  know  the  midnight  of  her  eyes? 

Why  should  I  go  so  very  far 

To  learn  what  heavenly  bodies  are? 

Not  Berenice's  starry  hair 

With  Hilda's  tresses  can  compare; 

Not  Venus  on  a  cloudless  night, 

Enslaving  Science  with  her  light, 

Ever  reveals  so  much  as  when 

She  stares  and  droops  her  lids  again. 

If  Nature's  secrets  are  forbidden 

To  mortals,  she  may  keep  them  hidden. 

^ons  and  cxons  we  progressed 

And  did  not  let  that  break  our  rest; 

Little  we  cared  if  Mars  o'erhead 

Were  or  were  not  inhabited; 


398  HUMOROUS 

Without  the  aid  of  Saturn's  rings, 
Fair  girls  were  wived  in  those  far  springs; 
Warm  Hps  met  ours  and  conquered  us 
Or  ere  thou  wert,  Copernicus! 

Greybeards  who  seek  to  bridge  the  chasti? 
'Twixt  man  to-day  and  protoplasm, 
Who  theorize  and  probe  and  gape. 
And  finally  evolve  an  ape — ■ 
Yours  is  a  harmless  sort  of  cult, 
If  you  are  pleased  with  the  result. 
Some  folks  admit,  with  cynic  grace. 
That  you  have  rather  proved  your  case. 
These  dogmatists  are  so  severe ! 
Enough  for  me  that  Hilda's  here, 
Enough  that,  having  long  survived 
Pre-Eveic  forms,  she  has  arrived — 
An  illustration  the  completest 
Of  the  survival  of  the  sweetest. 

Linnaeus,  avaunt !    I  only  care 

To  know  what  flower  she  wants  to  wear. 

I  leave  it  to  the  addle-pated 

To  guess  how  pinks  originated. 

As  if  it  mattered !    The  chief  thing 

Is  that  we  have  them  in  the  spring, 

And  Hilda  likes  them.    When  they  come, 

I  straightway  send  and  purchase  some. 

Tlie  Origin  of  Plants — go  to ! 

Their  proper  end  I  have  in  view. 

The  loveliest  book  that  ever  man 
Looked  into  since  the  world  began 


CANDOR  39Q 

Is  woman  !    As  I  turn  those  pages, 

As  fresh  as  in  the  primal  ages, 

As  day  by  day  1  scan,  perplexed, 

The  ever  subtly  changing  text, 

I  feel  that  I  am  slowly  growing 

To  think  no  other  work  worth  knowing. 

And  in  my  copy — there  is  none 

So  perfect  as  the  one  I  own — 

I  find  no  thing  set  down  but  such 

As  teaches  me  to  love  it  much. 


CANDOR 
October — A  Wood 

HENRY    C.    BUNNER 

'*  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said, 

And  she  stood  up  looking  uncommonly  tall; 
"  You  are  going  to  speak  of  the  hectic  Fall 

And  say  you're  sorry  the  summer's  dead. 

And  no  other  summer  was  like  it,  you  know, 
And  can  I  imagine  what  made  it  so? 

Now  aren't  you,  honestly?  "     "  Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said; 

"  You  are  going  to  ask  if  I  forget 

That  day  in  June  when  the  woods  were  wet, 
And  you  carried  me  " — here  she  dropped  her  head- 

*'  Over  the  creek;   you  are  going  to  say, 

Do  I  remember  that  horrid  day. 
Now  aren't  you,  honestly?  "     "  Yes,"  I  said. 


iOO  HUMOROUS 

"  I  know  what  you*re  going  to  say,"  she  said; 
"  You  are  going  to  say  that  since  that  time 
You  have  rather  tended  to  run  to  rhyme, 

And  " — her  clear  glance  fell  and  her  cheek  grew  red— 
"And  have  I  noticed  your  tone  was  queer? — - 
Why,  everybody  has  seen  it  here!— 

Now,  aren't  you,  honestly?"     "Yes,"  I  said. 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  I  said; 

"  You're  going  to  say  you've  been  much  annoyed, 
And  I'm  short  jf  tact — you  will  say  devoid — 

And  I'm  clumsy  and  awkward,  and  call  me  Ted, 
And  I  bear  abuse  like  a  dear  old  lamb, 
And  you'll  have  me  anyway,  just  as  I  am, 

Now  aren't  you,  honestly?  "    "  Ye-es,"  she  said. 


A   PAIR   OF  FOOLS 

JAMES   K,    STEPHEN 

I.  His  Account  of  the  Matter. 

I  met  you,  dear,  I  met  you:  I  can't  be  robbed  of  that; 
Despite   the   crowd,   the  babble,  and   the  military 
band; 
I  met  you,  yes,  I  met  you:  and  by  your  side  I  sat; 
I  looked  at  you,  I  talked  to  you,  and  twice  I  held 
your  hand. 

When  you  are  with  me,  dearest,  the  crowd  is  out  of 
sight; 
The  men  who  smoke,  the  men  who  pose,  the  sharp- 
ers, and  the  flats; 


A    I'AIK    Uf     i"OUl.S  4O1 

The  people  quite  unfit  to  walk  beneath  the  heaven's 
light; 
The    green    and    yellow    women  with    intolerable 
h?ts. 

The  sun  was  bright:  the  dahlias  fla.'ihed:  the  trees,  in 
summer  sheen, 
Shut  out  the  dusty  houses,  hushed  the  turmoil  of 
the  street; 
But,  had  the  charm  of  peace  enhanced  the  sweetness 
of  the  scene, 
.Even  so  your  beauty  had  eclipsed  the  whole  of  it,- 
my  sweet. 

I  talked  to  you,  you  listened;    I  passed  from  grave 
to  gay, 
With  what  a  world  of  sympathy  you  gently  mur- 
mured. "  Yes !  " 
A  merry  "  No,"  a  soft  "  Perhaps,"  a  glance  the  other 
\\'ay : 
An  eyebrow  raised,  a  foot  that  tapped,  a  rustle  of 
your  dress. 

You  smiled,  ah !  what  a  smile  is  yours;  your  depth  of 
hazel  eyes 
Shook  conscious  of  the  thought  within,  expressed 
but  unexplained; 
Your  speaking  face  that  glowed  with  all  a  girl's  sedate 
surprise; 
"That    brow    of   hers,"    as    Browning    says:     the 
thoughts  that  it  contained  ' 


402  HUMOROUS 

I  talked  as  ne'er  before;    to  you  my  eloquence  be- 
longed; 
You  spoke,  dear,  with  my  lips,  'twas  I  that  listened 
and  approved; 
Strange,  subtle  phrases  sprang,  and  thoughts  as  deep 
as  novel  thronged: 
I  know  you  knew,  I  swear  you  did,  how  ardently 
I  loved. 

We  parted,  and  you  looked  at  me  in  silence :    and  I 
knew 
The  meaning  of  the  look :   I'll  come  to-morrow  if  I 
live; 
To-morrow  I  shall  come,  and  I  will  say  a  word  to  you, 
And  you  will  speak,  at  last,  the  words  that  hope 
and  rest  can  give, 

2.  Her  Account  of  the  Mcrtter. 

I  met  him  in  the  park  my  dear;  he  is  a  funny  man; 

Impossible  to  separate  his  earnest  from  his  fun; 
He  talks,  and  talks,  it's  deadly  dull :  I  smile,  you  know 
the  plan; 

And,  when  particularly  grave,  he  makes  a  jest  of  one. 

The  park  was  full  of  people;  Maud  had  such  a  lovely 
dress : 
A  dream  of  greeny  silk  and  gauze  and  primrose  rib- 
bons, oh ! 
I  wished  I  had  one;   and  her  hat!   I  tried  and  tried  to 
guess 
How  much  it  cost;   she  buvs  the  stuff  and  makes  a 
hat,  you  know. 


A    PAIR   OF   FOOLS  403 

I  think  I  sat  with  him  an  hour;    there  was  a  crowd, 
my  dear, 
Some  pretty  girls;  one  lovely  one;  and  four  attrac- 
tive men : 
Old  Mrs.  Robinson  was  there  and  Mr.  Vere  de  Vere, 
And  not  another  soul  I  knew;   I  shall  not  go  again. 

I  don't  know  what  we  talked  about;  I  smiled,  the  same 
old  smile; 
I  "  yes'd  "  and  "  no'd  '"  and  "  really'd,"  till  I  thought 
he  must  discover 
That  I  was  listening  to  the  band;    I  wondered  all  the 
while 
If  such  a  dull  old  gentleman  could  ever  be  a  lover. 

P*erhaps  some  solemn,  sober  girl   with   eyes  a   foot 
across. 
Smooth,  neatly  parted  hair,  no  stays,  elastic-sided 
boots. 
Will  yearn  at  him  and  marry  him;   I  sha'n't  regret  his 
loss; 
I  really  think  some  kinds  of  men  are  low^er  than  the 
brutes. 

He  went  at  last,  the  prig!     He'll  come  to-morrow  if 
he  can, 
He  means  to  recollect  our  talk — ours,  mind  you — 
all  his  life : 
Confound — I  beg  your  pardon,  dear — well,  bless  the 
little  man ! 
And  bless  the  little  woman  who  becomes  his  little 
wife ! 


404  HUMOROUS 

3.  My  Account  of  the  Matter. 

A  pair  of  fools :   the  man  was  vain, 
The  woman  frivolous,  'tis  plain : 
And  each  an  egoist  in  thought : 
One  dived  for  self;    the  other  sought 
Self  on  the  surface :   fools,  you  see : 
Two  fools,  no  doubt  you  will  agree, 
For  now  they're  married,  he  and  she. 


EARLY  RISING 

JOHN    G.    SAXE 

"  Now  blessing  light  on  him  that  first  invented  sleep!  it  covers  a 
man  all  over,  thoughts  and  all,  like  a  cloak;  it  is  meat  for  the 
hungry,  drink  for  the  thirsty,  heat  for  the  cold,  and  cold  for  the 
hot." — Don  Quixote,  Part  II.,  Chapter  67. 

"  God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep !  " 
So  Sancho  Panza  said,  and  so  say  I; 

And  bless  him,  also,  that  he  didn't  keep 
His  great  discovery  to  himself,  nor  try 

To  make  it — as  the  lucky  fellow  might — 

A  close  monopoly  by  patent-right ! 

Yes — bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep 

(I  really  can't  avoid  the  iteration); 
But  blast  the  man  with  curses  loud  and  deep, 

Whate'er  the  rascal's  name,  or  age,  or  station, 
WU/;^  first  invented,  and  went  round  advising, 
XTiat  artificial  cut-ofT — Early  Rising! 


EARLY    RISING  40$ 

"  Rise  with  the  lark,  and  with  the  lark  to  bed," 
Observes  some  solemn,  sentimental  owl; 

Maxims  like  these  are  very  cheaply  said; 
But,  ere  you  make  yourself  a  fool  or  fowl, 

Pray,  just  inquire  about  his  rise  and  fall, 

And  whether  larks  have  any  beds  at  all ! 

The  time  for  honest  folks  to  be  abed 
Is  in  the  morning,  if  I  reason  right; 

And  he  who  cannot  keep  his  precious  head 
Upon  his  pillow  till  it's  ^airly  light, 

And  so  enjoy  his  forty  morning  winks, 

Is  up  to  knavery,  or  else — he  drinks! 

Thomson,  who  sang  about  the  "  Seasons,"  said 
It  was  a  glorious  thing  to  rise  in  season; 

But  then  he  said  it — lying — in  his  bed, 
At  lo  A.M. — the  very  reason 

He  wrote  so  charmingly.    The  simple  fact  is. 

His  preaching  wasn't  sanctioned  by  his  practice.  - 

'Tis,  doubtless,  well  to  be  sometimes  awake — 
Awake  to  duty,  and  awake  to  truth — - 

But  when,  alas!   a  nice  review  we  take 

Of  our  best  deeds  and  days,  we  find,  in  sooth, 

Tlie  hours  that  leave  the  slightest  cause  to  weep 

Are  those  we  passed  in  childhood  or  asleep! 

'Tis  beautiful  to  leave  the  world  awhile 
For  the  soft  visions  of  the  gentle  night; 

And  free,  at  last,  from  mortal  care  or  guile, 
To  live  as  only  in  the  angels'  sight, 

In  sleep's  sweet  realm  so  cosily  shut  in. 

Where,  at  the  worst,  we  only  dream  of  sinj 


406  HUMOROUS 

So  let  us  sleep,  and  give  the  Maker  praise. 

I  like  the  lad  \vho,  when  his  father  thought 
To  clip  his  morning  nap  by  hackneyed  phrase 

Of  vagrant  worm  by  early  songster  caught, 
Cried,  "  Served  him  right !  'tis  not  at  all  surprising* 
The  worm  was  punished,  sir,  for  early  rising." 


WHAT'S   THE   DIFFERENCE? 

O.   F.   PEARRE 

Pat  Flyn  had  sixty-seven  hats 

And  wanted  sixty  more; 
It  was  an  odd,  strange  whim  of  Pat*s, 

For  only  one  he  wore; 
But  he  would  toil  by  night  or  day 
To  get  a  hat  to  lay  away. 

'Twas  "  Hats  "  the  first  thing  in  the  morn, 
And  "  Hats  "  at  noon  and  night; 

The  neighbors  laughed  the  man  to  scorn, 
And  said  it  w-as  but  right 

To  send  such  crazy  cranks  as  he 

To  spend  their  days  at  Kankakee. 

A  million  dollars  Peter  Doyle 

Had  laid  av^'ay  in  store, 
Yet  late  and  early  did  he  toil 

To  get  a  million  more; 
He  could  not  use  the  half  he  had, 
And  yet  he  wanted  "  more,  bedad." 


THE    HLINU   AKCHEF  40; 

His  neighbors  praised  him  to  the  skies, 

Wherever  he  might  go; 
They  called  him  great  and  good  and  wise, 

And  bowed  before  him  low. 
Is  there  such  difference  as  that 
Between  a  dollar  and  a  hat? 


THE  BLIND  ARCHER 

A.    CONAN    DOYLE 

Little  boy  Love  drew  his  bow  at  a  chance, 

Sliooting  down  at  the  ball-room  floor; 
He  hit  an  old  chaperon  watching  the  dance. 
And  oh   l)ut  he  wounded  her  sore. 

"Hey,  Love,  you  couldn't  mean  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at?  " 
No  word  would  he  say, 
But  he  flew  on  his  way, 
For  the  little  boy's  busy,  and  how  could  he  stay? 

Little  boy  Love  drew  a  shaft  just  for  sport 

At  the  soberest  club  in  Pall  Mall; 
He  winged  an  old  veteran  drinking  his  port, 
And  down  that  old  veteran  fell. 

"  Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that ! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
This  cannot  be  right! 
It's  ludicrous  quite  !  " 
But  it's  no  use  to  argue,  for  Love's  out  of  sight. 


4^8  HUMOROUS 

A  sad-faced  young  clerk  in  a  cell  all  apart 

Was  planning  a  celibate  vow; 
But  the  boy's  random  arrow  has  sunk  in  his  heart, 
And  the  cell  is  an  empty  one  now. 
"  Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that ! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
He  is  not  for  you, 
He  has  duties  to  do." 
"  But  I  am  his  duty,"  quoth  Love  as  he  flew. 

The  king  sought  a  bride,  and  the  nation  had  hoped 
For  a  queen  without  rival  or  peer. 
But  the  little  boy  shot,  and  the  king  has  eloped 
With  Miss  No-one  on  nothing  a  year. 
"  Hey,  Love,  you  couldn't  mean  that! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
What  an  impudent  thing 
To  make  game  of  a  king !  " 
"  But  I'm  a  king,  also,"  cried  Love  on  the  wing. 

Little  boy  Love  grew  pettish  one  day; 

'  If  you  keep  on  complaining,"  he  swore, 
"  ril  pack  both  my  bow  and  my  quiver  away, 
And  so  I  shall  plague  you  no  more." 
"  Hey,  Love,  you  mustn't  do  that ! 
Hi,  Love,  what  would  you  be  at? 
You  may  ruin  our  ease, 
"S'ou  may  do  what  you  please, 
But  we  can't  do  without  you,  you  sweet  little  tease  !  " 


BLANK   VERSE   IN    RHYME  40y 

BLANK  VERSE  IN  RHYME 
A  Nocturnal  Sketch 

THOMAS   HOOD 

Even  is  come:    and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark 
The  signal  of  the  setting  sun — one  gun ! 
And  six  is  sounding  from  the  chime,  prime  time 
To  go  and  see  the  Drury-lane  Dane  slain, — 
Or  hear  Othello's  jealous  doubt  spout  out, — 
Or  Macbeth  raving  at  that  shade-made  blade, 
Denying  to  his  frantic  clutch  much  touch; — 
Or  else  to  see  Ducrow  with  wide  stride  ride 
Four  horses  as  no  other  man  can  span; 
Or  in  the  small  Olympic  Pit,  sit  split 
Laughing  at  Liston,  while  you  quiz  his  phiz. 

Anon  night  comes,  and  with  her  wings  brings  things 
Such  as,  with  his  poetic  tongue.  Young  sung; 
The  gas  up-blazes  with  its  bright  white  light, 
And  paralytic  watchmen  prowl,  howl,  growl, 
About  the  streets,  and  take  up  Pall  Mall  Sal, 
Who,  hastening  to  her  nightly  jobs,  robs  fobs. 

Now  thieves  do  enter  for  your  cash,  smash,  crash. 
Past  drowsy  Charley,  in  a  deep  sleep,  creep. 
But,  frightened  by  Policeman  B  3,  flee. 
And  while  they're  going  whisper  low,  "  no  go !  " 
Now  puss,  while  folks  are  in  their  beds,  treads  leads, 
And  sleepers  waking,  grumble, — "  drat  that  cat !  " 
Who  in  the  gutter  caterwauls,  squalls,  mauls 
Some  feline  foe,  and  screams  in  shrill  ill-will. 


^lO  HUMOROUS 

Now  Bulls  of  Bashan,  of  a  prize-size,  rise 
In  childish  dreams,  and  with  a  roar  gore  poor 
Georgy,  or  Charles,  or  Billy,  willy-nilly; — 
But  nursemaid  in  a  nightmare  rest,  chest  press'd, 
Dreameth  of  one  of  her  old  flames,  James  Games, 
And  that  she  hears — what  faith  is  man's — Ann's  banns 
And  his,  from  Reverend  Mr.  Rice,  twice,  thrice; 
White  ribbons  flourish,  and  a  stout  shout  out, 
That  upward  goes,  shows  Rose  knows  those  bows 
woes! 


MY   LOVE 

ANONYMOUS 

My  love  (dear  man!)  tarns  in  his  toes, 

My  love  is  tangled-kneed, 
Cross-ej^ed,  left-handed,  hair  and  beard 

In  hue  are  disagreed; 
He  has  no  soft  and  winning  voice, 

No  single  charm  has  he; 
And  yet  this  awkward,  ugly  man 

Is  all  the  world  to  me. 

My  neighbor  Gay  rejoices  in 

A  beauty  of  a  man : 
Straight-limbed,  fair-faced,  and  find  his  peer 

She  knows  no  mortal  can. 
I  look  upon  his  handsome  form 

And  own  'tis  fine  to  see; 
But  turn  back  to  the  homely  man 

Who's  all  the  world  to  me. 


THKV  w r.\ r  FISHING  41 T 

There's  Mrs.  Flirt  and  Airs.  Chat, 

Each  with  her  cavaher; 
They  smile  and  wonder  how  I  can 

Call  snch  a  fright  "  my  dear." 
But  it  is  just  as  strange,  1  think, 

How  they  can  happy  be 
Without  my  homely  man,  for  he 

Is  all  the  world  to  me. 

Don't  ask  nic  why,  I  cannot  tell; 

'Tis  all  as  mystery; 
I've  sought  myself  a  thousand  times 

Its  secret  history. 
Meanwhile,  my  heart  grows  sad  to  think 

How  drear  this  world  would  be 
Without  this  awkward,  homely  man 

lllio's  all  tJic  icorld  to  nic. 


THEY  WENT  FISHING 

ANONYMOUS 

One  morning  when  spring  was  in  her  teens, 

A  morn  to  a  poet's  wishing. 
All  tinted  in  delicate  pinks  and  greens, 

Miss  Bessie  and  I  went  fishing. 

I  in  my  rough  and  easy  clothes, 

With  my  face  at  the  sunshine's  mercy; 

She  with  her  hat  tip])cd  down  to  her  nose, 
And  her  nose  tipped — vice  versa: 


HUMOROUS 

I  with  my  rod.  my  reel  and  my  hooks, 
And  a  hamper  for  lunching  recesses; 

She  with  the  bait  of  her  comely  looks 
And  the  seine  of  her  golden  tresses. 

So  we  sat  down  on  the  sunny  dike, 
Where  the  white  pond  lilies  teeter, 

And  I  went  to  fishing,  like  quaint  old  Ike, 
And  she  like  Simon  Peter, 

All  the  noon  I  lay  in  the  light  of  her  eyes, 
And  dreamily  w'atched  and  waited; 

But  the  fish  were  cunning  and  would  not  rise, 
And  the  baiter  alone  was  baited. 

And  when  the  time  for  departure  came, 

The  bag  was  flat  as  a  flounder; 
But  Bessie  had  neatly  hooked  her  game, 

A  hundred-and-eighty-pounder. 


BURGLAR  BILL* 
Style:  The  ''Sympathetic  Artless" 

F.   ANSTEY 

The  writer  would  not  be  acting  fairly  by  the  }'0'jng 
reciter  if,  in  recommending  the  following  poem  ay  a 
subject  for  earnest  study,  he  did  not  caution  /i'm---<?r 
her — not  to  be  betrayed  by  the  apparent  sii.r\f/Jlcify  ot 

*The  humor  of  this  burlesque  on  "  Elocutionary  Le /.( r.-Talks  "  is 
much  enhanced  when  the  reciter  reads  to  the  audience  •  1/  'lie  direc(i'>44 
given  by  the  author. 


BUKULAR   BILL  413 

this  exercise  into  the  grave  error  of  under-estimating 
its  real  difficulty. 

It  is  true  that  it  is  an  illustration  of  pathos  of  an 
elementary  order  (we  shall  reach  the  advanced  kind  at 
a  later  stage),  but,  for  all  that,  this  piece  bristles  with 
as  many  points  as  a  porcupine,  and  consequently  re- 
quires the  most  cautious  and  careful  handling. 

Upon  the  whole,  it  is  perhaps  better  suited  to  stu- 
dents of  the  softer  sex. 

Announce  the  title  with  a  suggestion  of  shy  inno- 
cence— in  this  way: 

Burglar  [now  open  both  eyes  very  zmde]  Bill. 
[TJien  go  on  in  a  Inislied  voice,  and  ivith  an  air 
of  wonder  at  the  zvorld's  iniquity.] 

I. 

Through  a  window  in  the  attic 

Brawny  Burglar  Bill  has  crept, 
Seeking  stealthily  a  chamber 

Where  the  jewelry  is  kept. 

[Pronounce  either  "  jczvclry  "   or  "  joolery,"  according 
to  taste.] 

n. 

He  is  furnished  with  a  "  jemmy," 

Centre-bit,  and  carpet-bag. 
For  the  latter  "  comes  in  handy," 

So  he  says,  "to  stow  the  swag." 

["Jemmy,"    "centre-hit,"   "carpet-bag,"   are   important 
I,  I    '.'■    ^rA  ^ood  coloring  into  them.] 


414  HUMOROUS 

III. 
Here,  upon  the  second  landing, 
He,  secure,  may  work  his  will; 
Down  below's  a  dinner-party, 
Up  above — the  house  is  still. 
[Here   start   and    extend    tirst   finger,   remembering   to 
make  it  zvaggle  slightly,  as  from  fear.] 

IV. 

Suddenly — in  spell-bound  horror, 

All  his  satisfaction  ends — 
For  a  little  white-robed  figure 
By  the  banister  descends! 
[This  last  line  requires  care  in  delivery,  or  it  may  be 
imagined  that  the  little  figure  is  sliding  down  the 
banisters,    which    would    simply    ruin    the    effect. 
Note   the   bold   but  classic  use  of  the  singtdar  in 
"  banister,"  zvhich  is  more  pleasing  to  a  nice  ear 
than  the  plural.] 

V. 

Bill  has  reached  for  his  revolver, 

[Business  here  ivith  your  fan.] 

Yet — he  hesitates  to  fire     .     .     . 
Child  is  it  [in  a  dread  zvhisper]  or — apparition, 

That  provokes  him  to  perspire? 

VI. 

Can  it  be  his  guardian  angel, 

Sent  to  stay  his  hand  from  crime? 

[In  a  tone  of  azve.] 
He  could  wish  she  had  selected 
Some  more  seasonable  time! 

[Touch  of  peevish  discontent  here.] 


BURGLAR    BILL  415 

VII. 

"Go  away!"  he  \\liisi)ers  lioarsely, 

'*  Burglars  hev  their  bread  to  earn; 
I  don't  need  no  Gorchan  angel 
(livin'  of  me  scch  a  liini!  " 
[S/iiiildcr  licrc,  and  retreat,  sliicld'ni^:;  eyes  uitJi  hand.] 
[Noie  e/iaiis^e  your  )iia)iiier  to  a  naive  surprise:  this,  in 
spite  of  anything  zve  may  have  said  previously,  is 
in  this  particular  instance  not  best  indicated  by  a 
shrill  falsetto.] 

VIII. 
But  the  bhie  eyes  open  wider, 
Ruby  lij)s  reveal  their  ])earl; 

[Ihis  )nust  not  be  taken  to  refer  to  the  Burglar.] 
"  I  is  not  a  Garden  anzel. 
Only — dust  a  yickle  dirl ! 
[Be  particularly  artless  here  and  through  next  sfanca.] 

IX. 

"  On  the  thtairs  to  thit  I'm  doin' 

Till  the  tarts  and  dellies  turn; 
Partinthon    (our  butler)   alwayth 

Thaves  for  Baby  Bella  thome! 

X. 

"  Poor  man,  '00  is  yookin'  'ungwy — 
Leave  '00  burgling  fings  up  dere; 

Tum  viz  me  and  share  the  sweeties, 
Thitting  on  the  bottom  thtair!" 
[In  rendering  the  above  the  young  Reciter  should  strive 

to    be    idiomatic    ivithout    ever    becoming    idiotic — 

which  is  not  so  easy  as  might  be  imagined.] 


410  HUMOROUS 

XL 

"  Reely,  Miss,  you  must  excoose  me ! " 
Says  the  burglar  with  a  jerk : 
[Indicate  embarrassment  here  by  smoothing  dozvn   the 
folds  of  your  gown,  and  szvaying  awkzvardly.] 

"  Dooty  calls,  and  time  is  pressing; 
I  must  set  about  my  work !  " 

[This  with  a  gruff  conscientiousness.] 

XII. 

[Nozv  assume  your  zvide-eyed  innocence  again.] 
"  Is  'oo  work  .to  bweak  in  houses? 

Nana  told  me  so,  I'm  sure ! 
Will  'oo  if  'oo  can  manage 

To  bweak  in  my  doWs  house  door? 

XIII. 

"  I  tan  never  det  it  undone, 

So  my  dollies  tan't  det  out; 
They  don't  yike  the  fwont  to  open 

Every  time  they'd  walk  about! 

XIV. 

"Twy,  and — if  'oo  does  it  nithely — • 
When  I'm  thent  upthtairs  to  thleep, 

[Don't  overdo  the  lisp.] 

I  will  bwing  'oo  up  thome  doodies, 
'Oo  shall  have  them  all — to  keep !  " 


DURCiLAR   BILL  417 

XV. 

[Pause    here;    then,    ivith    intense    feeling    and    sym- 
pathy]— 
Off  the  I'ttle  "  angel  "  flutters; 

[Delicate  stress  on  "angel."] 
But  the  burglar — wipes  his  brow. 
He  is  wholly  unaccustomed 
To  a  kindly  greeting  now ! 

[Tremble  in  voice  here.] 

XVI. 

Never  with  a  smile  of  welcome 

Has  he  seen  his  entrance  met ! 
Nobody — except  the  policeman —         [Bitt-crly.'] 

Ever  wanted  Jii)n  as  yet! 

xvn. 

Many  a  stately  home  he's  entered, 

But,  with  unobtrusive  tact, 
He  has  ne'er,  in  paying  visits, 

Called  attention  to  the  fact. 

xvni. 

Gain  he  counts  it,  on  departing, 

Should  he  have  avoided  strife. 

[/;/  to)ie  of  passionate  lament.] 
Ah,  my  brothers,  but  the  burglar's 

Is  a  sad.  a  lonely  life ! 


^l3  HUMOROUS 

XIX. 

All  forgotten  now  the  jewels, 

Once  the  purpose  of  his  "job"; 
Down  he  sinks  upon  the  door-mai. 

With  a  deep  and  choking  sob. 

XX. 

Then,  the  infant's  plea  recalling, 

Seeks  the  nursery  above; 
Looking  for  the  Lilliputian 

Crib  he  is  to  crack — for  love! 

[It  is  more  usually  done  for  money.] 

XXL 

In  the  corner  stands  the  doll's  house, 

Gaily  painted  green  and  red; 

[Coloring  again  here.] 
And  its  door  declines  to  open 

Even  as  the  child  has  said! 

XXIL 

Forth  come  centre-bit  and  jemmy:         [Briskly.] 

All  his  implements  are  plied; 

[E)ithusiastically.'j 
Never  has  he  burgled  better! 

As  he  feels,  with  honest  pride. 

XXIIL 

Deftly  is  the  task  accomplished, 

For  the  door  will  open  well; 
When — a  childish  voice  behind  hinj 

Breaks  the  silence — like  a  belL 


BURGLAR    BILL  419 

XXIV. 
"  Sank  '00.   Misser  Burglar,  sank  '00 ! 

And,  betaiise  'oo's  l)een  so  nice, 
See  what  I  have  clot — a  tartlet ! 
Great  l)i<;"  gwccdies  ate  the  ice." 

[Resentful  accent  on  "ate."] 

XXV. 

"  Papa  says  he  wants  to  see  'oo, 

Partinthon  is  tummin  too — 
Tan't  '00  wait?  " 
T/zu  leitJi  guileless  surprise — then  change  to  a  husky 
e})iotion.] 
.     .     "  Well,  not  this  evenin', 
So,  my  little  dear  [brusquely],  adoo!  " 

XXVI. 

[You  are  noze  to  produce  your  greatest  effect;  the 
audience  should  be  made  actually  to  see  the  poor 
hunted  victim  of  social  prejudice  escaping,  consoled 
in  the  very  act  of  flight  by  memories  of  this  last 
adventure — the  one  bright  and  cheering  episode, 
possibly,  in  his  entire  professional  career.] 
Fast  he  speeds  across  the  housetops! 

[Rapid  delivery  for  this.] 

[Very  gently.]      P>ut  his  bosom  throbs  with  bliss, 
For  upon  his  rough  lips  linger 
Traces  of  a  baby's  kiss. 

[Most  delicate  treatment  z<'ill  be  Jiecessary  in  the  last 
couplet — or  the  audience  may  understaiui  it  in  a 
painfully  literal  sense.] 

[You  luive  nothing  before  you  now  but  the  finale.    Make 
the  contrast  as  marked  as  possible.] 


420  HUMOROUS 

XXVII. 

Dreamily  on  downy  pillow 

[Soft  musical  intonation  for  this.] 
Baby  Bella  murmurs  sweet: 

[Smile  here  zvitJi  sleepy  tenderness.] 
"  Burglar — tum  adain,  and  thee  me     .     .     . 
I  will  dive  'oo  cakes  to  eat!  " 
[That  is  one  side  of  the  medal — nozv  for  the  other.] 

XXVIII. 

[Harsh  hut  emotional.] 

In  a  garret,  worn  and  weary, 

Burglar  Bill  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Clasping  tenderly  a  damson- 
Tartlet  to  his  burly  breast. 
[Divell  lovingly  upon  the  word  "  tartlet " — zvhich  you 
should  press  home  upon  every  one  of  your  hearers, 
remembering  to  fold  your  hands  lightly  over  your 
breast  as  you  conclude.] 


HUMOROUS    DIALECT 

WHEN    MALINDY    SINGS 

PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

G'vvay  an'  quit  dat  noise,  Miss  Lucy- 
Put  dat  music  book  away; 

What's  de  use  to  keep  on  tryin'? 
Ef  you  practice  twell  you're  gray, 

You  cain't  sta't  no  notes  a-flyin' 
Lak  de  ones  dat  rants  and  rings 

F'om  de  kitchen  to  de  big  woods 
When  MaHndy  sings. 

You  ain't  got  de  nachel  o'gans 

Fu'  to  make  de  soun'  come  right. 
You  ain't  got  de  tu'ns  an'  twistin's 

Fu'  to  make  it  sweet  an'  hght. 
Tell  you  one  thing  now,  Miss  Lucy, 

An'  Fm  tellin'  you  fu'  true, 
When  hit  comes  to  raal  right  singin' 

'Tain't  no  easy  thing  to  do. 

Easy  'nough  fu'  folks  to  hollah, 

Lookin'  at  de  lines  an'  dots. 

When  (ley  ain't  no  one  kin  sence  it, 

An'  de  chune  conies  in,  in  spots; 
421 


422  HUMOROUS    DIALECT 

But  fii'  real  melojous  music, 

Dat  jes'  strikes  yo'  hea't  and  clings 

Jes'  you  Stan'  an'  listen  wif  me 
When  ]\lalindy  sings. 

Ain't  you  nevah  hyeahd  Malindy? 

Blessed  soul,  tek  up  de  cross! 
Look  hyeah,  ain't  you  jokin',  honey? 

Well,  you  don't  know  \\\n\t  you  los'. 
Y'ought  to  hyeah  dat  gal  a-\va'blin', 

Robins,  la'ks,  an'  all  dem  things, 
Hush  dey  moufs  an'  hides  dey  faces 

When  Malindy  sings. 

Fiddlin'  man  jes'  stop  his  fiddlin', 

Lay  his  fiddle  on  de  she'f; 
Mockin'  bird  quit  tryin'  to  whistle, 

'Cause  he  jes'  so  shamed  hisse'f. 
Folks  a-playin'  on  de  banjo 

Draps  dey  fingahs  on  de  strings — - 
Bless  yo'  soul — fu'gits  to  move  'em, 

When  Malindy  sings. 

She  jes'  spreads  huh  mouf  and  hollahs, 

"  Come  to  Jesus,"  twell  you  hyeah 
Sinnahs'  tremblin'  steps  and  voices, 

Timid-lak,  a-drawin'  neah; 
Den  she  tu'ns  to  "  Rock  of  Ages." 

Simply  to  de  cross  she  clings. 
An'  you  fin'  yo'  teahs  a-drappin' 

WHien  Malindy  sings. 


WHEN    MALINDY    SINGS  423 

Who  dat  says  dat  hnm])le  praises 

W'li  (le  Master  nevah  counts? 
Hush  yo'  mouf,  I  hyeah  dat  music, 

Ez  hit  rises  up  an'  mounts — 
Floatin'  by  de  hills  an'  valleys. 

Way  above  dis  buryin'  sod, 
Ez  hit  makes  its  way  in  glory 

To  de  very  gates  of  God! 

Oh,  hit's  sweetah  dan  de  music 

Of  an  edicated  band; 
An'  hit's  dearah  dan  de  battle's 

Song  o'  triumph  in  de  Ian'. 
It  seems  holier  dan  evenin' 

When  de  solemn  chu'ch-bell  rings, 
Ez  I  sit  an'  ca'mly  listen 

While  Malindy  sings. 

Towsah,  stop  dat  ba'kin,  hyeah  me ! 

Mandy,  mek  dat  chile  keep  still; 
Don't  you  hyeah  de  echoes  callin' 

F'om  de  valley  to  de  hill? 
Let  me  listen,  I  can  hyeah  it, 

Th'oo  de  bresh  of  angel's  wings, 
Sof  an'  sweet,  "  Swing  Low,  Sweet  Chariot." 

Ez  ]\Ialindy  sings. 


424  nUMUKUUS    DIALECT 

"SPACIALLY  JIM" 

BESSIE  MORGAN 

I  wus  mighty  good-lookin'  when  I  wiis  young, 

Peert  an'  black-eyed  an'  sHm, 
With  fellers  a-courtin'  me  Sunday  nights, 

'Spacially  Jim. 

The  likeliest  one  of  'em  all  wus  he, 

Chipper  an'  han'some  an'  trim; 
But  I  tossed  up  my  head  an'  made  fun  o'  the  crowd, 

'Spacially  Jim. 

I  said  I  hadn't  no  'pinion  o'  men, 

An'  I  wouldn't  take  stock  in  him! 
But  they  kep'  on  a-comin'  in  spite  o'  my  talk, 

'Spacially  Jim. 

I  got  so  tired  o'  havin'  'em  roun* 

('Spacially  Jim !) 
I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  settle  down 

An'  take  up  with  him. 

So  we  wus  married  one  Sunday  in  church, 

'Twas  crowded  full  to  the  brim; 
'Twas  the  only  way  to  git  rid  of  'em  all, 

'Spacially  Jim. 


THE   IIAHITANT  .J^ 

THE   HABITANT 

WILLIAM    HENRY    DRUMMOND 

De  place  I  get  born,  me,  is  up  on  de  reever 
Near  foot  of  de  rapide  dat's  call  Cheval  Blanc. 

Beeg  mountain  behin'  it,  so  high  you  can't  climb  it, 
An'  whole  place  she's  mebbe  two  bonder  arpent. 

De  fader  of  me,  he  was  habitant  farmer, 
Ma  gran'fader  too,  an'  bees  fader  also. 

Dey  don't  mak'  no  monee,  but  dat  isn't  fonny 
For  it's  not  easy  get  ev'ryt'ing,  you  mus'  know — 

All  de  sam'  dere  is  somet'ing  dey  got  ev'ryboddy, 
Dat's  plaintee  good  healt',  wat  de  monee  can't  geev, 

So  I'm  workin'  away  dere,  an'  happy  for  stay  dere 
On  farm  by  de  reever,  so  long  I  was  leev. 

O !  dat  was  de  place  w'en  de  spring  tam  she's  comin', 
Wen  snow  go  away,  an'  de  sky  is  all  blue — 

W'en  ice  lef  de  water,  an'  sun  is  get  hotter. 
An'  back  on  de  medder  is  sing  de  gou-glou. — 

Wen  small  sheep  is  firs'  comin'  out  on  de  pasture, 
Deir  nice  leetle  tail  stickin'  up  on  deir  back, 

Dey  ronne  wit'  deir  moder,  an'  play  wit'  each  oder 
An'  jomp  all  de  tam  jus'  de  sam'  dey  was  crack. — • 

An'  ole  cow  also,  she's  glad  winter  is  over. 
So  she  kick  herse'f  up,  an'  start  ofT  on  de  race 

Wit'  de  two-year-ole  heifer,  dat's  purty  soon  lef  har — 
Wy  ev'ryt'ing's  crazee  all  over  de  place! 


426  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

An'  down  on  de  reever  de  wil'  duck  is  quackln*, 
Along  by  de  shore  leetle  san'  pipei  ronne — - 

De  bullfrog  he's  gr-rompin'  an'  dore  is  jompin' — 
Dey  all  got  deir  own  way  for  mak'  it  de  fonne. 

But  spring's  in  beeg  hurry,  an'  don't  stay  long  wit*  us, 
An'  firs'  t'ing  we  know,  she  go  off  till  nex'  year, 

Den  bee  commence  hummin',  for  summer  is  comin*, 
An'  purty  soon  corn's  gettin'  ripe  on  de  ear. 

Dat's  very  nice  tarn  for  wake  up  on  de  morning 
An'  lissen  de  rossignol  sing  ev'ry  place, 

Feel  sout'  win'  a-blowin',  see  clover  a-growin' 
An'  all  de  worl'  laughin'  itself  on  de  face. 

AIos'  ev'ry  day  raf  it  is  pass  on  de  rapide, 
De  voyageurs  singin'  some  ole  chanson 

'Bout  girl  down  de  reever — too  bad  dey  mus'  leave  her, 
But  comin'  back  soon  wit'  beaucoup  d'argent. 

An'  den  w'en  de  fall  an'  de  winter  come  roun'  us. 

An'  bird  of  de  summer  is  all  fly  away, 
W'en  mebbe  she's  snowin'  an'  nort'  win'  is  blowin,* 

An'  night  is  mos'  t'ree  tarn  so  long  as  de  day. 

You  t'ink  it  was  bodder  de  habitant  farmer? 

Not  at  all — he  is  happy  an'  feel  satisfy, 
An'  cole  may  las'  good  w'ile,  so  long  as  de  wood-pile 

Is  ready  for  burn  on  de  stove  by  an'  bye. 

When  I  got  plaintee  hay  put  away  on  de  stable 
So  de  sheep  an'  de  cow,  dey  got  no  chance  to  freeze, 

An'  de  hen  all  togedder — I  don't  min'  de  wedder — • 
De  nort'  win'  may  blow  jus'  so  moche  as  she  please. 


THE   HABITANT  42; 

An'  some  cole  winter  night  how  I  wish  you  can  see  us, 
W'en  I  smoke  on  de  pipe,  an'  de  ole  woman  sew 

By  de  stove  of  T'ree  Reever — ma  wife's  fader  geev  her 
On  day  we  get  marry,  dat's  long  tam  ago — 

De  boy  an'  de  girl,  dey  was  readin'  it's  lesson, 
De  cat  on  de  corner  she's  bite  heem  de  pup, 

Ole  "  Carleau  "  he's  snorin'  an'  beeg  stove  is  roarin' 
So  loud  dat  I'm  scare  purty  soon  she  bus'  up. 

Philomene — dat's  de  oldcs' — is  sit  on  de  winder 
An'  kip  jus'  so  quiet  lak  wan  leetle  mouse, 

She  say  de  more  finer  moon  never  was  shiner — 
Very  fonny,  for  moon  isn't  dat  side  de  house. 

But  purty  soon  den'  we  hear  foot  on  de  outside. 
An'  some  wan  is  place  it  hecs  han'  on  de  latch, 

Dat's  Isidore  Goulay,  las'  fall  on  de  Brule 

He's  tak'  it  firs'  prize  on  de  grand  ploughin'  match. 

Ha!   ha!    Philomene! — dat  was  smart  trick  you  play 
us; 
Come  help  de  young  feller  tak*  snow  from  hees 
neck, 
Dere's  not'ing  for  hinder  you  come  off  de  winder 
Wen  moon  you  was  look  for  is  come,  I  expec' — 

Isidore,  he  is  tole  us  de  news  on  de  parish, 

'Bout  hees  Lajeunesse  Colt — travel  two-forty,  sure, 

'Bout  Jeremie  Choquette,  come  back  from  Woon- 
socket, 
An'  t'ree  new  leetle  twin  on  Madame  Vaillancour'. 


42S  HUMOROUS   DIALECl 

But  nine  o'clock  strike,  an'  de  chil'ren  is  sleepy, 
Mese'f  an'  ole  woman  can't  stay  up  no  more; 

So  alone  by  de  fire — 'cos  dey  say  dey  ain't  tire—" 
We  lef  Philomene  an'  de  young  Isidore. 

I  s'pose  dey  be  talkin'  beeg  lot  on  de  kitchen 
'Bout  all  de  nice  moon  dey  was  see  on  de  sky, 

For  Philomene's  takin'  long  tarn  get  awaken 
Nex'  day,  she's  so  sleepy  on  bote  of  de  eye. 

Dat's  wan  of  dem  ting's,  ev'ry  tarn  on  de  fashion, 
An'  'bout  nices'  t'ing  dat  was  never  be  seen. 

Got  not'ing  for  say  me — I  spark  it  sam'  way  me 
Wen  I  go  see  de  moder  ma  girl  Philomene. 

We  leev  very  quiet  'way  back  on  de  contree, 
Don't  put  on  sam  style  lak  de  big  village, 

W'en  we  don't  get  de  monee  you  t'ink  dat  is  fonny 
An'  mak'  plaintee  sport  on  de  Bottes  Sauvages. 

But  I  tole  you — dat's  true — I  don't  go  on  de  city 
If  you  geev  de  fine  house  an'  beaucoup  d'argent- 

I  rader  be  stay  me,  an'  spen'  de  las'  day  me 
On  farm  by  de  lapide  dat's  call  Cheval  Blanc. 


KATIE'S  ANSWER 

ANONYMOUS 

Och,  Katie's  a  rogue,  it  is  thrue; 
But  her  eyes,  like  the  sky,  are  so  blue 

An'  her  dimples  so  swate, 

An'  her  ankles  so  nate, 
She  dazed  an'  she  bothered  me  too. 


katil;'s  answer  429 

Till  one  iiiornin'  wc  wint  for  a  ride; 
Whin  demure  as  a  bride,  by  my  side 

The  darlint  she  sat, 

W'id  the  wickedest  hat 
'Neath  party  girl's  chin  iver  tied. 

An'  my  heart,  arrah  thin  how  it  bate; 
For  my  Kate  looked  so  temptin'  an'  swate 

Wid  cheeks  like  the  roses, 

An'  all  the  red  posies 
That  grow  in  her  garden  so  nate. 

But  I  sat  just  as  mute  as  the  dead 
Till  she  said,  wid  a  toss  of  her  head, 

"  If  I'd  known  that  to-day, 

Ye'd  have  nothing  to  say, 
I'd  have  gone  wid  my  cousin  instead.'* 

Thin  I  felt  myself  grow  very  bold; 
For  I  knew  she'd  not  scold  if  I  told 

Uv  the  love  in  my  heart,  ^ 

That  would  niver  depart. 
Though  I  lived  to  be  wrinkled  an'  old. 

An'  I  said,  "  If  I  dared  to  do  so, 
I'd  lit  go  uv  the  baste  an'  I'd  throw 

Both  arms  round  your  waist. 

An'  be  stalin'  a  taste 
Uv  them  lips  that  are  coaxin'  me  so.'* 

Thin  she  blushed  a  more  illegant  red, 
As  she  said  widout  raisin'  her  head. 

An'  her  eyes  lookin'  down 

'Neath  her  lashes  so  brown, 
"  Would  ye  like  me  to  drive,  Misther  Ted?"* 


430  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

THE  POWER  OF  PRAYER;    OR,  THE  FIRST 
STEAMBOAT  UP  THE  ALABAMA 

SIDNEY  AND  CLIFFORD  LANIER 

Yoli,  Dinah !  Come  and  set  me  whar  de  ribber-roads 
does  meet. 

De  Lord,  He  made  dese  black-jack  roots  to  twis'  into 
a  seat. 

Umph  dar !  De  Lord  have  mussy  on  dis  blin'  old  nig- 
ger's feet. 

It  'pear  to  me  dis  mornin'  I  kin  smell  de  fust  o'  June. 
I  'clar',  I  b'lieve  dat  mockin'-bird  could  play  de  fiddle 

soon! 
Dem  yonder  town-bells  sounds  like  dey  was  ringin'  in 

de  moon. 

Well,  ef  dis  nigger  is  been  blind  for  fo'ty  year  or  mo', 
Dese  ears,  dcy  sees  de  world,  like,  th'u'  de  cracks  dat's 

in  de  do'. 
For  de  Lord  has  built  dis  body  wid  de  windows  'hind 

and  'fo'. 

I  know  my  front  ones  is  stopped  up,  and  things  is 

sort  o'  dim, 
But  den,  th'u'  dcui,  temptation's  rain  won't  leak  in  on 

ole  Jim ! 
De  back  ones  show   me   earth   enough,  aldo'   dey's 

mons'ous  slim. 

And  as  for  Hebben, — bless  de  Lord,  and  praise  His 

holy  name — 
Dat  shines  in  all  de  co'ners  of  dis  cabin  jes'  de  same 
As  ef  dat  cabin  hadn't  nar'  a  plank  upon  de  frame! 


THE   POWER   OF   PRAYER  431 

Who  call  me?    Listen  down  tie  ribber,  Dinah!    Don't 

you  hyar 
Somebody  holl'in'  "  Hoo,  Jim,  hoo/  "    My  Sarah  died 

las'  y'ar; 
Is  dat  black  angel  done  come  back  to  call  ole  Jim  f  om 

hyar? 

My  stars,  dat  caln't  be  Sarah,  shuh !    Jes'  listen,  Dinah, 

What  k{)i  be  comin'  up  dat  bend,  a-makin'  sich  a  row? 
Fus'  bellerin'  hke  a  pawin'  bull,  den  squealin'  like  a 
sow  ? 

De  Lord  'a'  mussy  sakes  alive,  jes'  hear, — ker-woof, 

ker-woof — • 
De  Debbie's  comin'  round  dat  bend,  he's  comin  shuh 

enuff, 
A-splashin'  up  de  water  wid  his  tail  and  wid  his  hoof ! 

I'se  pow'ful  skeered;  but  neversomeless  I  ain't  gwine 

run  a^^■ay : 
I'm  gwine  to  stand  stiff-legged  for  de  Lord  dis  blessed 

day. 
YoH  screech,  and  swish  de  water,  Satan !    I'se  a  gwine 

to  pray. 

O  hebbenly  Marster,  ^^•hat  thou  wiliest,  dat  mus'  be 

jes'  so, 
And  ef  Thou  hast  bespoke  de  word,  some  nigger's 

bound  to  go. 
Den,  Lord,  please  take  ole  Jim,  and  lef  young  Dinah 

hvar  below ! 


432  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

'Scuse  Dinah,   'scuse  her,  Marster;    for  she's  sich  a 

little  chile. 
She  hardly  jes'  begin  to  scramble  up  de  homeyard 

stile, 
But  dis  ole  traveller's  feet  been  tired  dis  many  a  many 

a  mile. 

I'se  wufless  as  de  rotten  pole  of  las'  year's  fodder-stack. 
De  rheumatiz  done  bit  my  bones;  you  hear  'em  crack 

and  crack? 
I  cain'st  sit  down  'dout  gruntin'  like  'twas  breakin'  o' 

my  back. 

What  use  de  wheel,  when  hub  and  spokes  is  warped 

and  split,  and  rotten? 
What  use  dis  dried-up  cotton-stalk,  when  Life  done 

picked  my  cotton? 
I'se  like  a  word  dat  somebody  said,  and  den  done  been 

forgotten. 

But,  Dinah!     Shuh  dat  gal  jes'  like  dis  little  hick'ry 

tree, 
De  sap's  jes'  risin'  in  her;  she  do  grow  owdaciouslee — 
Lord,  ef  you's  clarin'  de  underbrush,  don't  cut  her 

down,  cut  me ! 

I  would  not   proud   presume — but  I'll  boldly  make 

reques'; 
Sence  Jacob  had  dat  wrastlin'-match,  I,  too,  gwine  do 

my  bes'; 
When  Jacob  got  all  underholt,  de  Lord  he  answered 

Yes! 


THK    POWER   OF   I'KAYER  433 

f 

And  what  for  waste  de  vittles,  now,  and  tli'ow  away  dc 

bread, 
Jes'  for  to  strength  dese  idle  hands  to  scratch  dis  olc 

bald  head? 
T'ink  of  de  'cononiy,  ]\Iarster,  ef  dis  olc  Jim  was  dead! 

Stop; — cf  1  don't  believe  de  Debbie's  gone  on  up  de 

stream ! 
Jes'  now  he  squealed  down  dar; — hush;  dat's  a  mighty 

weakly  scream ! 
Yas,  sir,  he's  gone,  he's  gone; — he  snort  way  off,  like 

in  a  dream ! 

0  glory  hallelujah  to  de  Lord  dat  reigns  on  high! 
De  Debbie's  fai'ly  skeered  to  def,  he  done  gone  flyin' 

by; 

1  know'd  he  couldn't  stand  dat  pra'r,  I  felt  my  Marster 

nigh ! 

You,  Dinah;    ain't  you  'shamed,  now,  dat  you  didn' 

trust  to  grace? 
I  heerd  you  thrashin'  th'u'  de  bushes  when  he  showed 

his  face ! 
You  fool,  you  think  de  Debbie  couldn't  beat  you  in 

a  race? 


I  tell  you,  Dinah,  jes'  as  shuh  as  you  is  standin'  dar, 
When  folks  starts  prayin',  answer-angels  drops  down 

th'u'  de  a'r. 
Yas,  Diiiuh,  zchar  'oitld  yon  be  )iozv,  jes'  'cciHin'  fur 

dat  pra'rf 


434  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

MANDALAY 

RUDYARD    KIPLING 

By  the  old   Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'   eastward  to 

the  sea, 
There's  a  Burma  girl  a-settin',  an'  I  know  she  thinks 

o'  me; 
For  the  wind  is  in  the  palm-trees,  an'  the  temple-bells 

they  say: 
"  Come  you  back,  you  British  soldier;  come  you  back 
to  Mandalay !" 

Come  you  back  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay: 
Can't  you  'ear  their  paddles  chuckin'  from  Rangoon 
to  Mandalay? 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play, 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China 
'crost  the  Bay ! 

'Er  petticut  was  yaller  an'  'er  little  cap  was  green, 
An'  'er  name  was  Supi-yaw-lat — jes'  the  same  as  Thee- 

baw's  Queen, 
An'  I  seed  her  fust  a-smokin'  of  a  whackin  white  che- 
root, 
An'  a-wastin'  Christian  kisses  on  an  'eathen  idol's  foot : 
Bloomin'  idol  made  o'  mud — 
Wot  they  called  the  Great  Gawd  Budd — 
Plucky  lot  she  cared  for  idols  when  I  kissed  'er 
where  she  stud ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — ■ 


MANDALAY  435 

When  the  mist  was  on  the  rice  fields  an'  :;he  sun  was 

droppin'  slow, 
She'd  git  'er  httle  banjo  an'  she'd  sing  "  Kullalo-lo!  " 
With  'er  arm  tipon  my  shoulder  an'  her  cheek  agin 

my  check 
We  useler  watch  the  steamers  an'  the  hatJiis  pilin'  teak. 
Elephints  a-pilin'  teak 
In  the  sludgy,  squdgy  creek, 
Where  the  silence  'ung  that  'eavy  you  was  'arf  afraid 
to  speak ! 

On  the  road  to  IMandalay — 

But  that's  all  shove  bc'ind  me — long  ago  an'  fur  aw^ay, 
An'  there  ain't  no  'buses  runnin'  from  the  Benk  to 

Mandalay ; 
An'  I'm  learnin'  'ere  in  London  what  the  ten-year 

sodger  tells: 
"  If  you've  'card  the  East  a-callin',  why,  you  won't  'eed 
nothin'  else." 

No !     you  w^on't  'eed  nothin'  else 
But  them  spicy  garlic  smells 
An'  the  sunshine  an'  the  palm-trees  an'  the  tinkly 
temple-bells ! 

On  the  road  to  IMandalay — 

I  am  sick  o'  wastin'  leather  on  these  gutty  pavin'- 
stones, 

An'  the  blasted  Henglish  drizzle  wakes  the  fever  in 
my  bones; 

Tho'  I  walks  with  fifty  'ousemaids  outer  Chelsea  to  the 
Strand, 

An'  they  talks  a  lot  o'  lovir'  but  wot  do  they  under- 
stand? 


436  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

Beefy  face  an'  grubby  'and — 
Law!   wot  do  they  understand? 
I've  a  neater,  sweeter  maiden  in  a  cleaner,  greener, 
land ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay — 

Ship  me  somewheres  east  of  Suez  where  the  best  is 

like  the  worst, 
Where  there  aren't  no  Ten  Commandments,  an'  a  man 

can  raise  a  thirst; 
For  the  temple-bells  are  callin',  an'  it's  there  that  I 

would  be — 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  lazy  at  the  sea — 
On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  old  Flotilla  lay, 
With  our  sick  beneath  the  awnings  when  we  went 
to  Mandalay ! 

On  the  road  to  Mandalay, 
Where  the  flyin'-fishes  play. 
An'  the  dawn  comes  up  like  thunder  outer  China 
'crost  the  Bay! 


THE    ROSE    OF    KENMARE 

ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES 

I've  been  soft  in  a  small  way 

On  the  girleens  of  Galway, 
And  the  Limerick  lasses  have  made  me  feel  quare; 

But  there's  no  use  denyin', 

No  girl  I've  set  eye  on 
Could  compate  wid  Rose  Ryan  of  the  town  of  Ken- 
mare. 


THE    ROSE   OK   KEN  MARE  437 

O,  where 
Can  her  like  be  found? 

No  where, 
The  country  round, 
Spins  at  her  wheel 

Daughter  as  true, 
Sets  in  the  reel, 

Wid  a  slide  of  the  shoe, 
a  slinderer, 
tinderer, 
piu'tier, 

wittier  colleen  than  you, 
Rose,  aroo  I 

Her  hair  mocks  the  sunshine, 

And  the  soft,  silver  moonshine 
Neck  and  arm  of  the  colleen  completely  eclipse; 

Whilst  the  nose  of  the  jewel 

Slants  straight  as  Carran  Tual 
From  the  heaven  in  her  eye  to  her  heather-sweet  lip. 

O,  where,  etc. 

Did  your  eyes  ever  follow 

The  wings  of  the  swallow 
Here  and  there,  light  as  air,  o'er  the  meadow  field 
glance? 

For  if  not  you've  no  notion 

Of  the  exquisite  motion 
Of  her  sweet  little  feet  as  they  dart  in  the  dance. 

O,  where,  etc. 


A.^b  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

If  y'  inquire  why  the  nightingale 

Still  shuns  th'  invitin'  gale 
That  wafts  every  song-bird  but  her  to  the  West, 

Faix,  she  knows,  I  suppose, 

Ould  Kenmare  has  a  rose 
That  would  sing  any  Bulbul  to  sleep  in  her  nest 

O,  where,  etc. 

When  her  voice  gives  the  warnin* 
For  the  milkin'  in  the  niornin' 

Ev'n  the  cow  known  for  hornin'  comes  runnin*  to  her 
pail: 

The  Iambs  play  about  her 

And  the  small  bonneens*  snout  her 

Whilst  their  parints  salute  her  wid  a  twisht  of  the  tail. 

O,  where,  etc. 

When  at  noon  from  our  labor 
We  draw  neighbor  wid  neighbor 

From  the  heat  of  the  sun  to  the  shelter  of  the  tree, 
Wid  spuds  f  fresh  from  the  bilin', 
And  new  milk,  you  come  smilin', 

All  the  boys'  hearts  beguilin',  alannah  machree !  X 

O,  where,  etc. 

But  there's  one  sweeter  hour 

When  the  hot  day  is  o'er, 
And  we  rest  at  the  door  wid  the  bright  moon  above, 

And  she's  sittin'  in  the  middle, 

When  she's  guessed  Larry's  riddle. 
Cries,  "  Now  for  your  fiddle,  Shiel  Dhuv,  Shiel  Dhuv." 

*  Piglings.  t  Potatoes.  J  My  heart's  delight. 


UNCLE    GABES    WHITE   FOLKS  43V 

O,  where 
Can  her  Hke  be  found? 

No  where, 
The  country  round, 
Spins  at  her  wheel 

Daughter  as  true, 
Sets  in  the  reel, 

Wid  a  slide  of  the  shoe, 
a  slinderer, 
tinderer, 
purtier, 

wittier  colleen  than  you, 
Rose,  aroo! 


UNCLE  GABE'S  WHITE  FOLKS 

THOMAS    NELSON    PAGE 

Sarvcnt,  IMarster !    Yes,  sah,  dat's  me — ■ 

Ole  Unc'  Gabe's  my  name; 
I  thankee,  Marster,  I'm  'bout,  yo'  see. 

"  An'  de  ole  'ooman?  "    She's  much  de  same, 
Po'ly  an'  'plainin',  thank  de  Lord ! 
But  de  Marster's  gwine  ter  come  back  from  'broad. 

"  Fine  ole  place?  "    Yes,  sah,  'tis  so; 

An'  mighty  fine  people  my  white  folks  war — 

But  you  ought  ter  'a'  seen  it  years  ago, 

\Mien  de  Marster  an'  de  Mistis  lived  up  dyah; 

When  de  niggers  'd  stan'  all  roun'  de  do', 

Like  grains  o'  corn  on  de  cornhouse  flo'. 


440  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

"  Live  mons'otis  high?  "    Yes,  Marster,  yes; 
Cut  'n'  onroyal  'n'  gordly  dash; 
Eat  an'  drink  till  you  couldn'  res'. 

My  folks  warn'  none  o'  yo'  po'-white-trash; 
No,  sail,  dey  \vas  ob  high  degree — 
Dis  heah  nigger  am  quality ! 

"  Tell  you  'bout  'em?  "    You  mus'  'a'  hearn 

'Bout  my  ole  white  folks,  sho' ! 
I  tell  you,  suh,  dey  was  gre't  an'  stern; 
D'  didn'  have  nuttin'  at  all  to  learn; 

D'  knowed  all  dar  was  to  know; 
Gol'  ober  de'  head  an'  onder  dey  feet; 
An'  silber !  dey  sowed  't  like  folks  sows  wheat. 

"  Use  ter  be  rich?  "     Dat  warn'  de  wud ! 

Jes'  wallowed  an'  roll'  in  wealf. 
Why,  none  o'  my  white  folks  ever  stirred 

Ter  lif  a  han'  for  d'self; 
De  niggers  use  ter  be  stan'in  roun' 
Jes'  d'  same  ez  leaves  when  dey  fus'  fall  down; 
De  stable-stalls  up  heah  at  home 
Looked  like  teef  in  a  fine-toof  comb; 
De  cattle  was  p'digious — mus'  tell  de  fac' ! 
An'  de  hogs  mecked  de  hillsides  look  like  black; 
An'  de  flocks  ob  sheep  was  so  gre't  an'  white 
Dey  'peared  like  clouds  on  a  moonshine  night. 
An'  when  my  ole  Mistis  use'  ter  walk — 

Jes'  ter  her  kerridge  (dat  was  fur 

Ez  ever  she  walked) — I  tell  you,  sir, 
You  could  almos'  heah  her  silk  dress  talk; 
Hit  use'  ter  soun'  like  de  mornin'  breeze, 
When  it  wakes  an'  rustles  de  Gre't  House  trees. 


UNCLE    GABE'S   WHITE    FOLKS  44I 

An'  (le  Marster's  face ! — de  Marster's  face, 
Whenever  de  Marster  got  right  pleased — 

Well,  I  'clar'  ter  Gord.  'twould  shine  wid  grace 
De  same  ez  his  countenance  had  been  greased. 

De  cellar,  too,  had  de  bes'  ob  wine. 

An'  brandy,  an'  sperrits  dat  yo'  could  fine; 

An'  ev'ything  in  dyah  was  stored, 

'Skusin'  de  glory  of  de  Lord ! 

"  Warn'  dyah  a  son?  "     Yes,  sah,  you  knows 

He's  de  young  Marster  now; 
But  w'e  heah  dat  dey  tooken  he  very  clo'es 

Ter  pay  what  ole  Marster  owe; 
He's  done  been  gone  ten  year,  I  s'pose. 
But  he's  comin'  back  some  day,  of  co'se; 
An'  my  ole  'ooman  is  aluz  pyard, 

An'  meckin'  de  Blue-Room  baid, 
An'  ev'ry  day  dem  sheets  is  ayard, 

An'  will  be  till  she's  daid; 
An'  de  styars  she'll  scour, 

An'  dat  room  she'll  ten', 

Ev'y  blessed  day  dat  de  Lord  do  sen'  ! 

What  say,  Marster?    Yo'  say,  you  knows?— 
He's  young  an'  slender-like  an'  fyah; 
Better-lookin'  'n  you,  of  co'se ! 
Hi !  you's  he?     'Fo'  Gord,  'tis  him  ! 

'Tis  de  very  voice  an'  eyes  an'  hyah, 
An'  mouf  an'  smile,  on'y  yo'  ain'  so  slim — - 
I  wonder  whah — whah's  de  ole  'ooman? 
Now  let  my  soul 

Depart  in  peace, 
For  I  behol' 


442  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

Dy  glory,  Lord ! — I  knowed  you,  chile — • 
I  knowed  you  soon's  I  see'd  your  face ! 

Whar  has  you  been  dis  blessed  while? 
Done  come  back  an'  buy  de  place? 
Oh,  bless  de  Lord  for  all  His  grace ! 

De  ravins  shell  hunger,  an'  shell  not  lack, 

De  Marster,  de  young  Marster's  done  come  back ! 


THE    IRISH    SPINNING-WHEEL 

ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES 

Show  me  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it. 

Oh,  no! 

Nothing  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Look  at  her  there — ■ 

Night  in  her  hair. 
The  blue  ray  of  day  from  her  eye  laughin'  out  on  us ! 

Faix,  an'  a  foot, 

Perfect  of  cut, 
Peepin'  to  put  an  end  to  all  doubt  in  us. 

That  there's  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it — 

Oh,  no ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 


THE   IKISH    SPI.\.\I.\(;-\VHEEL  443 

See!   the  lamb's  wool 

Turns  coarse  an'  dull 
By  them  soft,  beautiful  weeshy  white  hands  of  her. 

Down  goes  her  heel, 

Roun'  runs  the  wheel, 
Purrin'  wid  pleasure  to  take  the  commands  of  her. 

Then  show  me  a  sight 

Bates  for  delight 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it. 

Oh,  no ! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 

Talk  of  Three  Fates, 

Seated  on  sates, 
Spinnin'  and  shearin'  away  till  they've  done  for  me ! 

You  may  want  three 

For  your  massacree, 
But  one  Fate  for  me,  boys — and  only  the  one  for  me ! 

And  isn't  that  fate 

Pictured  complate — 
An  ould  Irish  wheel  wid  a  young  Irish  girl  at  it? 

Oh,  no! 

Nothin'  you'll  show 
Aquals  her  sittin'  an'  takin'  a  twirl  at  it. 


444  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

DE   NICE   LEETLE   CANADIENNE 

WILLIAM   HENRY   DRUMMOND 

You  can  pass  on  de  worl'  w'erever  you  lak, 
Tak'  de  steamboat  for  go  Angleterre, 

Tak'  car  on  de  State,  an'  den  you  come  back, 
An'  go  all  de  place,  I  don't  care — 

Ma  frien',  dat's  a  fack,  I  know  you  will  say, 
Wen  you  come  on  dis  contree  again, 

Dere's  no  girl  can  touch,  w'at  we  see  ev'ry  day, 
De  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Don't  matter  how  poor  dat  girl  she  may  be, 

Her  dress  is  so  neat  an'  so  clean, 
Mos'  ev'rywan  t'ink  it  was  mak'  on  Paree, 

An'  she  wear  it,  wall !  jus'  lak  de  Queen. 
Den  come  for  fin'  out  she  is  mak'  it  herse'f, 

For  she  ain't  got  moche  monee  for  spen', 
But  all  de  sam'  tam,  she  was  never  get  lef, 
Dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

Wen  "  un  vrai  Canayen  "  is  mak'  it  mariee, 

You  t'ink  he  go  leev  on  beeg  flat, 
An'  bodder  herse'f  all  de  tam,  night  an'  day, 

Wit'  housemaid,  an'  cook,  an'  all  dat? 
Not  moche,  ma  dear  frien',  he  tak'  de  maison, 

Cos'  only  nine  dollar  or  ten, 
Were  he  leev  lak  blood  rooster,  an'  save  de  I'argent, 
Wit'  hees  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 


LITTLE    BROWN    BABY  445 

I  marry  111a  femnie  w'en  I'm  jus'  twenty  year, 

An'  now  we  got  fine  familee, 
Dat  skip  roun'  de  place  lak  leetle  small  deer, 

No  smarter  crowd  never  you  see — 
An'  I  t'ink  as  I  watch  dem  all  chasin'  about, 

Four  boy  and  six  girl,  she  mak'  ten, 
Dat's  help  mebbe  kip  it,  de  stock  from  run  out. 
Of  de  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 

O  she's  quick  an'  she's  smart,  an'  got  plaintee  heart, 

If  you  know  correc'  way  go  about, 
An'  if  you  don't  know,  she  soon  tole  you  so. 

Den  tak'  de  firs'  chance  an'  get  out; 
But  if  she  love  you,  I  spik  it  for  true, 

She  will  rnak'  it  more  beautiful  den, 
An'  sun  on  de  sky  can't  shine  lak  de  eye 
Of  dat  nice  leetle  Canadienne. 


LITTLE    BROWN    BABY 

PAUL    LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes. 

Come  to  yo  pappy  an'  set  on  his  knee. 
What  you  been  doin',  suh — makin'  san'  pies? 

Look  at  dat  bib — you's  ez  du'ty  ez  me. 
Look  at  dat  mouf — dat's  merlasses,  I  bet; 

Come  hyeah,  Maria,  an'  wipe  off  his  ban's. 
Bees  gwine  to  ketch  you  an'  eat  you  up  yit, 

Bein'  so  stickv  and  sweet — goodness  lan's! 


44^  HUMOROUS   DIALECT 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes, 

Who's  pappy's  darlin'  an'  who's  pappy's  chile? 
Who  is  it  all  de  day  nevah  once  tries 

Fu'  to  be  cross,  er  once  loses  dat  smile? 
W^hah  did  you  git  dem  teef?     My,  you's  a  scamp! 

Whah  did  dat  dimple  come  f'om  in  yo'  chin? 
Pappy  do'  know  yo — I  b'lieves  you's  a  tramp; 

Mammy,  dis  hyeah's  some  ol'  straggler  got  in! 

Let's  th'ow  him  outen  de  do'  in  de  san' 

We  do'  want  stragglers  a-layin'  'roun'  hyeah; 
Let's  gin  him  'way  to  de  big  buggah-man; 

I  know  he's  hidin'  erroun'  hyeah  right  neah. 
Buggah-man,  buggah-man,  come  in  de  do', 

Hyeah's  a  bad  boy  you  kin  have  fu'  to  eat. 
Mammy  and  pappy  do'  want  him  no  mo', 

Swaller  him  down  f'om  his  haid  to  his  feet! 

Dah,  now,  I  t'ought  dat  you'd  hug  me  up  close. 

Go  back,  ol'  buggah,  you  sha'n't  have  dis  boy. 
He  ain't  no  tramp,  ner  no  straggler,  of  co'se; 

He's  pappy's  pa'dner  an'  playmate  an'  joy. 
Come  to  yo'  pallet  now — go  to  yo'  res'; 

Wisht  you  could  alius  know  ease  an'  cleah  skies: 
Wisht  you  could  stay  jes'  a  chile  on  my  bres' — 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes! 


RORV    O'MORE  447 

RORY  O'MORE 

SAMUEL    LOVER 

Young  Rorv  O'Morc  courted  Kathleen  bawn, 

He  was  hoU\  as  a  hawk,  and  she  soft  as  tlie  dawn; 

He  wish'd  in  his  heart  pretty  Kathleen  to  please. 

And  he  thought  the  best  way  to  do  that  was  to  tease. 

"  Now,  Rory,  be  aisy,"  sweet  Kathleen  would  cry, 

Reproof  on  her  lips,  but  a  smile  in  her  eye; 

"  With  your  tricks  I  don't  know,  in  troth,  what  I'm 

about; 
Faith,  you've  teased  till  I've  put  on  my  cloak  inside 

out." 
"  Oh!   jewel,"  says  Rory,  "  that  same  is  the  way 
You've  thrated  my  heart  for  this  many  a  day, 
And  'tis  plaz'd  that  I  am,  and  why  not,  to  be  sure? 
For  'tis  all  for  good  luck,"  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 

"  Indeed,  then,"  says  Kathleen,  "  don't  think  of  the 

like. 
For  I  half  gave  a  promise  to  soothering  Mike; 
The  ground  that  I  walk  on  he  loves,  I'll  be  bound." 
"  Faith."  says  Rory,  "  I'd  rather  love  you  than  the 

ground." 
"  Now,  Rory.  I'll  cry.  if  you  don't  let  me  go; 
Sure  I  dream  ev'ry  night  that  I'm  hating  you  so!  " 
"  Oh !  "  says  Rory,  "  that  same  I'm  delighted  to  hear, 
For  dhrames  always  go  by  contrairies,  my  dear ! 
Oh !    jewel,  keep  dreaming  that  same  till  you  die. 
And  bright  morning  will  give  dirty  night  the  black  lie; 
And  'tis  plaz'd  that  I  am.  and  why  not.  to  be  sure? 
Since  'tis  all  for  good  luck."  says  bold  Rory  O'More. 


448  HUMOROUS    DIALECT 

"  Arrah,    Kathleen,    my    darlint,    you've    teas'd    me 

enough, 
Sure  I've  thrash'd,  for  your  sake,  Dinny  Grimes  and 

Jim  Duff; 
'And  I've  made  myself,  drinking  your  health,  quite  a 

baste. 
So  I  think,  after  that,  I  may  talk  to  the  priest." 
Then  Rory,  the  rogue,  stole  his  arm  round  her  neck, 
So  soft  and  so  white,  without  freckle  or  speck, 
And  he  look'd  in  her  eyes  that  were  beaming  with 

light, 
And  he  kiss'd  her  sweet   lips, — don't  you   think  he 

was  right? 
'*  Now,  Rory,  leave  off,  sir;    you'll  hug  me  no  more; 
That's  eight  times  to-day  that  you've  kissed  me  be- 
fore," 
"  Then  here  goes  another,"  says  he,  "  to  make  sure, 
For  there's  luck  in  odd  numbers,"  says  Rory  O'More. 


KITTY   OF    COLERAINE 

CHARLES  DAWSON  SHANLEY 

As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping 
With  a  pitcher  of  milk,  from  the  fair  of  Coleraine, 
When  she  saw  me  she  stumbled,  the  pitcher  it  tumbled, 
And  all  the  sweet  buttermilk  watered  the  plain. 

"  O,  what  shall  I  do  now? — 'twas  looking  at  you  now ! 
Sure,  sure,  such  a  pitcher  I'll  ne'er  meet  again! 
'Twas  the  pride  of  my  dairy:  O  Barney  M'Cleary! 
You're  sent  as  a  plague  to  the  girls  of  Coleraine." 


KITTV    OF   COLKKAINE  449 

I  sat  down  beside  her,  and  gently  did  chide  her, 
That  such  a  misfortune  should  give  her  such  pain, 
A  kiss  then  I  gave  her,  and  ere  I  did  leave  her 
She  vowed  for  such  pleasure  she'd  break  it  again. 

'Twas  hay-making  season — I  can't  tell  the  reason- 
Misfortunes  will  never  come  single,  'tis  plain; 
For  very  soon  after  poor  Kitty's  disaster 
The  devil  a  pitcher  was  whole  in  Coleraine. 


LYRIC 

APPLE   BLOSSOMS 

WILLIAM    WELSEY    MARTIN 

Have  you  seen  an  apple  orchard  in  the  spring?    in 

the  spring? 
An  English  apple  orchard  in  the  spring? 
When  the  spreading  trees  are  hoary 
With  their  wealth  of  promised  glory, 
And  the  mavis  pipes  his  story 
In  the  spring ! 

Have  you  plucked  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring? 

in  the  spring? 
And  caught  their  subtle  odors  in  the  spring? 
Pink  buds  bursting  at  the  light, 
Crumpled  petals  baby-white, 
Just  to  touch  them  a  delight ! 
In.  the  spring! 

Have  you  walked  beneath  the  blossoms  m  the  spring? 

in  the  spring? 
Beneath  the  apple  blossoms  in  the  spring? 
When  the  pink  cascades  w^ere  falling, 
And  the  silver  brooklets  brawling. 
And  the  cuckoo  bird  is  calling 
In  the  spring? 

4SI 


452  i.YRIC 

Have  you  seen  a  merry  bridal  in  the  spring?   in  the 

spring? 
In  an  English  apple  country  in  the  spring? 
When  the  brides  and  maidens  wear 
Apple  blossoms  in  their  hair: 
Apple  blossoms  everywhere, 
In  the  spring? 

If  you  have  not,  then  you  know  not,  in  the  spring, 

in  the  spring, 
Half  the  color,  beauty,  wonder  of  the  spring. 
No  sight  can  I  remember, 
Half  so  precious,  half  so  tender, 
As  the  apple  blossoms  render 
In  the  spring! 


IF  ALL  THE   SKIES 

HENRY     VAN     DYKE 

If  all  the  skies  were  sunshine, 
Our  faces  would  be  fain 

To  feel  once  more  upon  them 
The  cooling  plash  of  rain. 

If  all  the  world  were  music, 
Oui  hearts  would  often  long 

Foi  one  sweet  strain  of  silence, 
To  break  the  endless  song. 

If  life  were  always  merry, 
Our  souls  would  seek  relief, 

And  rest  from  weary  laughter 
In  the  quiet  arms  of  grief. 


A  SNOW-SONG  453 

A  SNOW-SONG 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

Does  the  snow  fall  at  sea? 

Yes,  when  the  north  winds  bloWp 
When  the  wild  clouds  fly  low, 
Out  of  each  gloomy  wing, 
Hissing  and  niurnuiring, 
Into  the  stormy  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

Does  the  snow  hide  the  sea? 
On  all  its  tossing  plains 
Never  a  flake  remains; 
Drift  never  resteth  there; 
Vanishing  everywhere, 
Into  the  hungry  sea 
Falleth  the  snow. 

What  means  the  snow  at  sea? 
Whirled  in  the  veering  blast, 
Thickly  the  flakes  drive  past! 
Each  like  a  childish  ghost 
Wavers,  and  then  is  lost. 
Type  of  life's  mystery, 
In  the  forgetful  sea 
Fadeth  the  snow. 


454  LYRIC 

LIFE 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night, — Forenoon, 
And  afternoon,  and  night, — Forenoon,  and — what ! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more? 
Yea,  that  is  Life:    make  this  forenoon  subUme. 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer. 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 


OPPORTUNITY 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream : — 
There  spread  a  cloud  of  dust  along  a  plain; 
And  underneath  the  cloud,  or  in  it,  raged 
A  furious  battle,  and  men  yelled,  and  swords 
Shocked  upon  swords  and  shields.     A  prince's  banner 
Wavered,  then  staggered  backward,  hemmed  by  foes. 

A  craven  hung  along  the  battle's  edge, 
And  thought,  "  Had  I  a  sword  of  keener  steel — 
That  blue  blade  that  the  king's  son  bears, — but  this 
Blunt  thing — !  "  he  snapt  and  flung  it  from  his  hand, 
And  lowering  crept  away  and  left  the  field. 

Then  came  the  king's  son,  wounded,  sore  bestead, 
And  weaponless,  and  saw  the  broken  sword, 
Hilt-buried  in  the  dry  and  trodden  sand. 
And  ran  and  snatched  it.  and  with  battle-shout 
Lifted  afresh  he  hewed  his  enemy  down, 
And  saved  a  great  cause  that  heroic  day. 


"EX  ORE  infantium"  455 

"  EX  ORE  INFANTIUM  " 
f  Out  of  the  Mouth  of  Babes  "j 

FRANCIS    THOMPSON 

Little  Jesus,  wast  Thou  shy 

Once,  and  just  so  small  as  I? 

And  what  did  it  feel  like  to  be 

Out  of  Heaven,  and  just  like  me? 

Didst  Thou  sometimes  think  of  theref 

And  ask  where  all  the  angels  were? 

I  should  think  that  I  would  cry 

For  my  house  all  made  of  sky; 

I  would  look  about  the  air. 

And  wonder  where  my  angels  were; 

And  at  waking  'twould  distress  me — 

Not  an  angel  there  to  dress  me ! 

Hadst  Thou  ever  any  toys, 

Like  us  little  girls  and  boys? 

And  didst  Thou  play  in  Heaven  with  all 

The  angels  that  were  not  too  tall. 

With  stars  for  marbles?    Did  the  things 

Play  Can  you  see  me:'    through  their  wings? 

And  did  Thy  Motb.er  let  Thee  spoil 

Thy  robes,  with  Inlaying  on  our  soil? 

How  nice  to  have  them  always  new 

In  Heaven,  because  'twas  quite  clean  blue ! 

Didst  Thou  kneel  at  night  to  pray, 
And  didst  Thou  join  Thy  hands,  this  way? 


456  LYRIC 

And  did  they  tire  sometimes,  being  young, 
And  make  the  prayer  seem  very  long? 
And  dost  Thou  like  it  best,  that  we 
Should  join  our  hands  to  pray  to  Thee? 
I  used  to  think,  before  I  knew. 
The  prayer  not  said  unless  we  do. 
And  did  Thy  Mother  at  the  night 
Kiss  Thee,  and  fold  the  clothes  in  right? 
And  didst  Thou  feel  quite  good  in  bed, 
Kissed,  and  sweet,  and  Thy  prayers  said? 
Thou  canst  not  have  forgotten  all 
That  it  feels  like  to  be  small : 
And  Thou  know'st  I  cannot  pray 
To  Thee  in  my  Father's  way — 
When  Thou  wast  so  little,  say, 
Couldst  Thou  talk  Thy  Father's  way? — 
So,  a  little  Child  come  down 
And  hear  a  child's  tongue  like  Thy  own; 
Take  me  by  the  hand  and  walk, 
And  listen  to  my  baby-talk. 
To  Thy  Father  show  my  prayer 
(He  will  look,  Thou  art  so  fair). 
And  say:  "  Lo,  Father,  I,  Thy  Son, 
Bring  the  prayer  of  a  little  one." 

And  He  will  smile,  that  children's  tongue 
Has  not  changed  since  Thou  wast  young ! 


tLUUKAUU  41^/ 

ELDORADO 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 

Gaily  bedight, 

A  gallant  knight, 
In  sunshine  and  in  shadow, 

Had  journeyed  long, 

Singing  a  song, 
In  search  of  Eldorado. 

But  he  grew  old — ■ 

This  knight  so  bold — 
And  o'er  his  heart  a  shadow 

Fell  as  he  found 

No  spot  of  ground 
That  looked  like  Eldorado. 

And,  as  his  strength 

Failed  him  at  length, 
He  met  a  pilgrim  shadow — 

"  Shadow,"  said  he, 

"  Where  can  it  be — 
This  land  of  Eldorado?  " 

"  Over  the  Mountains 

Of  the  Moon, 
Down  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow, 

Ride,  boldly  ride," 

The  shade  replied, — 
"  If  you  seek  for  I-ddorado !  " 


458  LYRIC 

EULALIE 

EDGAR   ALLAN    POE 

I  dwelt  alone 
In  a  world  of  moan 
And  my  soul  was  a  stagnant  tide, 
Till  the  fair  and  gentle  Eulalie  became  my  blushing 

bride — 
Till  the  yellow-haired  young  Eulalie  became  my  smil- 
ing bride. 

Ah  less — less  bright 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Than  the  eyes  of  the  radiant  girl! 
And  never  a  flake 
That  the  vapor  can  make 
With  the  moon-tints  of  purple  and  pearl, 
Can  vie  with  the  modest  Eulalie's  most  unregarded 

curl — 
Can  compare  with  the  bright-eyed  Eulalie's  most  hum- 
ble and  careless  curl. 

Now  Doubt — now  Pain 
Come  never  again. 
For  her  soul  gives  me  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  all  day  long 
Shines  bright  and  strong, 
Astarte  within  the  sky, 
While  ever  to  her  dear  Eulalie  upturns  her  matron 

eye — 
While  ever  to  her  young  Eulalie  upturns  her  violet 
eye. 


"OH    MAY    I   JOIN   THE   CHOIR   INVISIBLE"      459 

"  OH  MAY  I  JOIN  THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE  " 

GEORGE    ELIOT 

Oh  may  I  join  tlie  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence:   live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven: 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song. 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burden  of  the  world, 
Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 
And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 
A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 


460  LYRIC 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 
Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 
To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love— = 
That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 
Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 
Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 
Unread  forever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 
Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  tz,  fellow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardor,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 


TEARS 

CLARENCE    N.    OUSLEY 

There's  sumpen  in  a  woman's  tears  that  makes  you 

wanter,  sorter 
Come  close  up  to  her  like,  and  tho'  perhaps  you  hadn't 

orter, 
And  lest  you're  gray  and  married — better  not,   I'm 

here  to  tell  you — 
Just  put  your  arm  around  her  waist  and  tech  her  chin, 

and — welJ — you — 


TEARS  461 

You  dam  the  streams  uv  cryiu'  up  with  Uttle  chunks 

uv  kisses, 
For  women  folks  they  live  on  love,  both  mistresses 

and  misses. 

There's  sumpen  in  the  children'*?  tears  that  makes  you 
wanter  i)et  "em. 

And — tho'  it  spiles  'em  ever'  time — jest  shet  your 
eyes  and  let  'em 

Do  what  they  dog-gone  please,  for  recollect  their  lit- 
tle troubles 

To  them  are  bigger'n  meetin'  houses;  ours  ain't  no 
more  nor  bubbles 

That  float  along  the  river  Life,  and  we  air  only  ripples 

A  runnin'  to  the  shore  and  dyin' — ripples  chasin' 
ripples. 

There's  sumpen  in  man's  tears  that  chokes  up  all  the 

forms  and  speeches 
Uv  sympathy.     Your  dumb  heart  aches  and  vainly  it 

beseeches 
A  sign  or  sound  to  voice  its  love.     Uncover !    stand ! 

and  listen ! 
That   sob  unstrung  a   chord   that   can't  be   mended. 

Tear-drops  glisten ! 
The    light    uv   joy    is    flickerin'    out.      Don't    speak. 

There's  no  use  tryin' 
To  comfort  him.     He'd  ruthcr  be  alone  with  God  and 

cryin'. 


462  LYRIC 

MY    BEACON 

EMILY    H.     MILLER 

I  looked  across  the  bay, 
When  the  tide  came  over  the  bar, 
And  saw,  through  the  rain,  the  harbor-Hght 
Shine  hke  a  great  white  star. 

I  trimmed  my  cottage  lamp 
And  sighed  at  its  tiny  spark. 
Thinking  the  ships,  for  leagues  away, 
The  harbor-light  could  mark. 

But  mine — a  little  way 
Along  the  treacherous  sands, 
And  the  murky  night  took  up  the  ray 
Quenched  in  its  pitiless  hands. 

A  keel  that  touched  the  shore, 
A  carol,  a  footstep  light, 
And  one  stood  safe  at  the  open  door, 

And  there  was  no  storm  nor  nighto 

"  Dear  heart,"  my  lover  said, 

His  hair  with  the  sea-fog  damp, 

"  Across  the  bar,  with  the  rising  tide, 

I  steered  by  thy  guiding  lamp." 

Fair  shone  my  cottage  lamp; 
A  wonderful  star  to  me. 
For  dearer  my  lover's  wave-worn  boat 
Than  all  the  ships  on  the  sea. 


WYNKEN,    BLVNKEN,   AND   NOD  463 

WYNKEN,   BLYNKEN,   AND    NOD 

EUGENE    FIELD 

Wvnken,  Blynken,  and  Nod  one  night 

Sailed  off  in  a  wooden  shoe, — 
Sailed  on  a  river  of  crystal  light 

Into  a  sea  of  dew. 
"  Where  are  you  going,  and  what  do  you  wish?  " 

The  old  moon  asked  the  three. 
"  We  have  come  to  hsh  for  the  herring-fish 
That  live  in  this  beautiful  sea; 
Nets  of  silver  and  gold  have  we," 
Said  Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

The  old  moon  laughed  and  sang  a  song, 

As  they  rocked  in  the  wooden  shoe; 
And  the  wind  that  sped  them  all  night  long 

Ruffled  the  waves  of  dew; 
The  little  stars  were  the  herring-fish 

That  lived  in  the  beautiful  sea. 
"  Now  cast  your  nets  wherever  you  wish, — 
Never  afeard  are  we !  " 
So  cried  the  stars  to  the  fishermen  three, 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

All  night  long  their  nets  they  threw 
To  the  stars  in  the  twinkling  foam, — 

Then  down  from  the  skies  came  the  wooden  shoe, 
Bringing  tlie  fishermen  home: 


464  LYRIC 

'Twas  all  so  pretty  a  sail,  it  seemed 

As  if  it  could  not  be; 
And  some  folk  thought  'twas  a  dream  they'd  dreamed 
Of  sailing  that  beautiful  sea; 
But  I  shall  name  you  the  fishermen  three  * 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 

Wynken  and  Blynken  are  two  little  eyes, 

And  Nod  is  a  little  head, 
And  the  wooden  shoe  that  sailed  the  skies 

Is  a  wee  one's  trundle-bed; 
So  shut  your  eyes  while  Mother  sings 

Of  wonderful  sights  that  be, 
And  you  shall  see  the  beautiful  things 
As  you  rock  on  the  misty  sea 
Where  the  old  shoe  rocked  the  fishermen  three, — 
Wynken, 
Blynken, 
And  Nod. 


"EARTH  HAS  NOT  ANYTHING  TO  SHOW 
MORE  FAIR" 

(Composed  upon   Westminster  Bridge,  September  j, 
1803) 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair: 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty: 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 


"THE   WORLD    IS   TOO    MUCH    WITH    US  "        4^5 

The  beauty  of  the  morning-;    silent,  l)arc, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields  and  to  the  sky, 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendor  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will: 
Dear  God !   the  very  houses  seem  asleep 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


"THE  WORLD  IS  TOO  MUCH  WITH  US" 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us;    late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flow^ers; 
For  this,  for  everything  we  are  out  of  tune; 
It  moves  us  not.     Great  God!   I'd  rather  be 
A  pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn; 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn, 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea, 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 


466  LYRIC 


THE  TWO    VILLAGES 

ROSE    TERRY    COOKE 

Over  the  village,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still; 
All  aronnd  it  the   forest  trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses  low  and  sweet 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  the  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door. 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river  shore; 
And  in  the  road  no  grasses  grow 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill; 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers, 

Never  a  clock  to  tell  the  hours; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut, 

You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut; 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep; 

Never  a  grain  to  sow   or  reap; 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh, 

Silent,  and  idle,  and  low  thev  lie. 


THINGS   THAT   NEVER   DIE  467 

In  that  village  under  the  hill 

When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 

Many  a  \\cary  soul  in  prayer 

Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 

And,  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 

Up  to  that  home  from  this  below; 

Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild; 

Longs  for  rest  as  the  tired  child; 

And  heareth.  praying,  this  answer  fall: 

"  Patience !     That  village  shall  hold  ye  all." 


THINGS  THAT   NEVER   DIE 

CHARLES    DICKENS 

The  pure,  the  bright,  the  beautiful, 

That  stirred  our  hearts  in  youth. 
The  impulses  to  wordless  prayer, 

The  dreams  of  love  and  truth; 
The  longings  after  something  lost, 

The  spirit's  yearning  cry, 
The  strivings  after  better  hopes — 

These  things  can  never  die. 

The  timid  hand  stretched  forth  to  aid 

A  brolhcr  in  his  need, 
A  kindly  word  in  grief's  dark  hour 

That  proves  a  friend  indeed; 
The  plea  for  mercy  softly  breathed 

When  justice  threatens  high. 
The  sorrow  of  a  contrite  heart — - 

These  things  shall  never  die. 


}68  LYRIC 

The  memory  of  a  clasping  hand, 

The  pressure  of  a  kiss, 
And  all  the  trifles,  sweet  and  frail, 

That  make  up  love's  first  bliss; 
If  with  a  firm,  unchanging  faith, 

And  holy  trust  and  high. 
Those  hands  have  clasped,  those  lips  have  met-= 

These  things  shall  never  die. 

The  cruel  and  the  bitter  word. 

That  wounded  as  it  fell; 
The  chilling  want  of  sympathy 

We  feel,  but  never  tell; 
The  hard  repulse  that  chills  the  heart. 

Whose  hopes  were  bounding  high, 
In  an  unfading  record  kept — 

These  things  shall  never  die. 


Let  nothing  pass,  for  every  hand 

Must  find  some  work  to  do; 
Lose  not  a  chance  to  waken  lov 

Be  firm,  and  just,  and  true : 
So  shall  a  light  that  cannot  fade 

Beam  on  thee  from  on  high, 
And  angel  voices  say  to  thee — 

These  things  shall  never  diCo 


JAPANESE    LULLABY  469 

JAPANESE    LULLABY 

EUGENE    FIELD 

Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings, — 
Little  blue  pigeon  wirh  velvet  eyes; 

Sleep  to  the  singing  of  mother-bird  swinging- 
Swinging  the  nest  where  her  little  one  lies. 

Away  out  yonder  I  see  a  star, — 

Silvery  star  with  a  tinkling  song; 
To  the  soft  dew  falling  I  hear  it  calling — 

Calling  and  tinkling  the  night  along. 

Li  through  the  window  a  moonbeam  comes, — 
Little  gold  moonbeam  with  misty  wings; 

All  silently  creeping,  it  asks,  "  Is  he  sleeping — 
Sleeping  and  dreaming  while  mother  sings?  " 

Up  from  the  sea  there  floats  the  sob 

Of  the  waves  that  are  breaking  upon  the  shore. 

As  though  they  were  groaning  in  anguish,  and  moan- 
ing— 
Bemoaning  the  ship  that  shall  come  no  more. 

But  sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings, — - 
Little  blue  pigeon  with  mournful  eyes; 

Am  I  not  singing? — see,  I  am  swinging — 
Swinging  the  nest  where  my  darling  lies. 


470  LYRIC 

TRUTH  AT  LAST 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

Does  a  man  ever  give  up  hope,  I  wonder, — 
Face  the  grim  fact,  seeing  it  clear  as  day? 
When  Bennen  saw  the  snow  sHp,  heard  its  thunder 
Low,  louder,  roaring  round  him,  felt  the  speed 
Grow  swifter  as  the  avalanche  hurled  downward, 
Did  he  for  just  one  heart-throb — did  he  indeed 
Know  with  all  certainty,  as  they  swept  onward. 
There  was  the  end,  where  the  crag  dropped  away? 
Or  did  he  think,  even  till  they  plunged  and  fell. 
Some  miracle  would  stop  them?     Nay,  they  tell 
That  he  turned  round,  face  forward,  calm  and  pale, 
Stretching  his  arms  out  toward  his  native  vale 
As  if  in  mute,  unspeakable  farewell, 
And  so  went  down. — 'Tis  something,  if  at  last, 
Though  only  for  a  flash,  a  man  may  see 
Clear-eyed  the  future  as  he  sees  the  past. 
From  doubt,  or  fear,  or  hope's  illusion  free. 


HOME 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

There  lies  a  city  in  the  hills; 

White  are  its  roofs,  dim  is  each  dwelling's  door. 

And  peace  with  perfect  rest  its  bosom  fills. 

There  the  pure  mist,  the  pity  of  the  sea. 
Comes  as  a  white,  soft  hand,  and  reaches  o'er 
And  touches  its  still  face  most  tenderly. 


SPRING    TWII.UiHT  4/1 

Unstirred  and  calm,  amid  our  shifting  years, 
Lo!    where  it  lies,  far  from  the  clash  and  roar, 
With  quiet  distance  blurred,  as  if  through  tears. 

O  heart,  that  prayest  so  for  God  to  send 

Some  loving  messenger  to  go  before 

And  lead  the  way  to  where  thy  longings  end, 

Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  that  soon  will  come 
His  kindest  angel,  and  through  that  still  door 
Into  the  Infinite  love  will  lead  thee  home. 


SPRING   TWILIGHT 

EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

Singing  in  the  rain,  robin? 

Rippling  out  so  fast 
All  thy  flute-like  notes,  as  if 

This  singing  were  thy  last! 

After  sundown,  too,  robin? 

Though  the  fields  are  dim. 
And  the  trees  grow  dark  and  still, 

Dripping  from  leaf  and  limb. 

'Tis  heart-broken  music — 

That  sweet,  faltering  strain,— 

Like  a  mingled  memory, 
Half  ecstasy,  half  pain. 


i^2  LYRIC 

Surely  thus  to  sing,  robin, 
Thou  must  have  in  sight 

Beautihil  skies  behind  the  shower. 
And  dawn  beyond  the  night. 

Would  thy  faith  were  mine,  robin! 

Then,  though  night  were  long. 
All  its  silent  hours  should  melt 

Their  sorrow  into  song. 


ANNABEL   LEE 

EDGAR  ALLAN    POE 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago, 

In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
That  a  maiden  there  lived  whom  you  may  know 

By  the  namfe  of  Annabel  Lee. 
And  this  maiden  she  lived  with  no  other  thought 

Than  to  love  and  be  loved  by  me. 

/  was  3.  child  and  sJic  was  a  child 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 
But  we  loved  with  a  love  that  was  more  than  love- 

I  and  my  Annabel  Lee; 
With  a  love  that  the  winged  seraphs  of  heaven 

Coveted  her  and  me. 

And  this  was  the  reason  that,  long  ago, 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea, 
A  wind  blew  out  of  a  cloud,  chilling 

My  beautiful  Annabel  Lee 


ANNABEL  LEE  473 

So  that  her  high-born  kinsman  came 

And  bore  her  away  from  me, 
To  shut  iier  up  in  a  sepulchre 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea. 

The  angels,  hol  half  so  happy  in  heaven, 

Went  envying  her  and  me — 
Yes!    that  was  the  reason  (as  all  men  know. 

In  this  kingdom  by  the  sea) 
That  the  wind  came  out  of  the  cloud  one  night, 

Chilling  and  killing  my  Annabel  Lee. 

But  our  love  it  was  stronger  by  far  than  the  love 

Of  those  who  were  older  than  we — 

Of  many  far  wiser  than  we — 
And  neither  the  angels  in  heaven  above, 

Nor  the  demons  down  under  the  sea, 
Can  ever  dissever  my  soul  from  the  soul 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee: 

For   the   moon   never  beams   without   bringing   me 
dreams 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  the  stars  never  rise,  but  I  feel  the  bright  eyes 

Of  the  beautiful  Annabel  Lee; 
And  so,  all  the  night-tide,  I  lie  down  by  the  side 
Of  my  darling — my  darling — my  life  and  my  bride, 

In  the  sepulchre  there  by  the  sea, 

In  her  tomb  by  the  sounding  sea. 


474  LYRIC 

SELF-DEPENDENCE 

MATTHEW    ARNOLD 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 

What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 

At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 

Forward,  forward,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send; 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calm'd  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end! 

"  Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "  ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you  !  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven. 

Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way. 

In  the  rustling  night  air  came  the  answer, — 

"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are?    Liz'e  as  they. 

"  Unafifrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see. 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them. 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining. 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silver'd  roll; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 


A  WOMAN'S   FACE  47$. 

"  Bounded  l)y  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  ah  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  hfe  we  see.'' 

O  air-born  voice!   long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  tliinc  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear: 
"  Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know  that  he 
^^'ho  finds  himself  loses  his  misery!" 


A  WOMAN'S  FACE 

JAMES    K.    STEPHEN 

The  good  a  man  does  from  time  to  time, 

Gets  thanks  and  praise  for,  is  crowned  with  bays  for 
Or  married  for,  sung  for  in  verse  sublime, 
Or  placed  for  in  marble  or  civic  halls 
Or  hung  for  in  oils  on  palace  walls: 

Is  good  that  deserves  to  be  hymned,  no  doubt. 

Commemorated,  and  duly  feted, 
And  otherwise  made  much  noise  about: 
And  of  course  it  is  well  that  the  men  are  found, 
To  do  such  good,  and  to  be  so  crowned. 

But  all  the  good  that  was  ever  done, 

Or  even  tried  for,  or  longed  or  sighed  for. 
By  all  the  great  men  under  the  sun, 
Since  men  were  invented,  or  genius  glowed, 
Or  the  world  was  furnished  for  our  abode: 


476  LYRIC 

Is  worth  far  less  than  the  merest  smile, 

Or  touch  of  finger,  or  sighs  that  linger, 
When  cheeks  grow  dimpled,  and  lips  lack  guile, 
On  the  face  of  the  women  whom  God  gives  grace 
To — well  on  a  certain  woman's  face. 


LITTLE   BOY    BLUE 

EUGENE    FIELD 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust, 

But  sturdy  and  stanch  he  stands; 
And  the  little  toy  soldier  is  red  with  rust, 

And  his  musket  moulds  in  his  hands. 
Time  was  when  the  little  toy  dog  was  new. 

And  the  soldier  was  passing  fair; 
And  that  was  the  time  when  our  Little  Boy  Blue 

Kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 

"  Now,  don't  you  go  till  I  come,"  he  said, 

"And  don't  you  make  any  noise!" 
So,  toddling  off  to  his  trundle-bed. 

He  dreamt  of  the  pretty  toys; 
And,  as  he  was  dreaming,  an  angel  song 

Awakened  our  Little  Boy  Blue — 
Oh !  the  years  are  many,  the  years  are  long, 

But  the  little  toy  friends  are  true! 

Ay,  faithful  to  Little  Boy  Blue  they  stand, 

Each  in  the  same  old  place. 
Awaiting  the  touch  of  a  little  hand, 

The  smile  of  a  little  face; 


ODE   ON    A    (JRECIAX    URN  4/7 

And  they  wonder,  as  waiting  the  long  years  through 

In  the  dust  of  that  httlc  chair, 
What  has  become  of  our  Little  Boy  Blue, 

Since  he  kissed  them  and  put  them  there. 


ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

JOHN    KEATS 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness! 

Thou  foster-child  of  Silence  and  slow  Time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme: 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  liaunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both. 
In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady? 

What  men  or  gods  are  these?    What  maidens  loath? 
What  mad  pursuit?     What  struggle  to  escape? 

What  pipes  and  timbrels?     What  wild  ecstasy? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter;    therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on; 
Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endeared. 

Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone: 
Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave 

Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare; 
Bold  lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve; 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 

Forever  wilt  thou  love  and  she  be  itair! 


478  LYRIC 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs!    tl?at  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieuj 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

Forever  piping  songs  forever  new; 
More  happy  love!    more  happy,  happy  love! 

Forever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoyed. 
Forever  panting  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high  sorrowful  and  cloyedj 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea-shore. 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  its  folk  this  pious  morn? 

And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape!     Fair  attitude!    with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed; 

Thou,  silent  form!    dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity.     Cold  Pastoral! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 
Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 

Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st; 
"  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty — that  is  all 

Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know." 


O   CATTAIiNl   MV    CAPTAIN  I  479 


O  CAPTAIN!    MY  CAPTAIN! 

WALT    WHITMAN 

O  Captain!    my  Captain!   our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The  ship  has  weather'd  every  rack,  the  prize  we  sought 

is  won, 
The  port  is  near,  the  bells  I  hear,  the  people  all  ex- 
ulting, 
While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,   the  vessel  grim 
and  daring; 
But  O  heart!    heart!    heart! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies. 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain!   my  Captain!  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells; 
Rise  up — for  you  the  flag  is  tlung — for  you  the  bugle 

trills. 
For  you  bouciuets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths — for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding. 
For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning; 
Here  Captain!    dear  father! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My  Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and  still, 
My  father  does  not  I'eel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 
will, 


480  LYRIC 

The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 
From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won; 
Exult,  O  shores,  and  ring,  O  bells! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies. 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 


THE   FAIRIES 
A  Child's  Song 

WILLIAM    ALLINGHAM 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen, 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk. 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather! 

Down  along  the  rocky  shore 

Some  make  their  home — 
They  live  on  crispy  pancakes 

Of  yellow  tide-foam; 
Some  in  the  reeds 

Of  the  black-mountain  lake, 
With  frogs  for  their  watch-dogs. 

All  night  awake. 


THE   FAIRIES  ^At 

High  on  the  hill-top 

The  old  King  sits; 
He  IS  now  so  old  and  gray, 

He's  nigh  lost  his  wits. 
With  a  bridge  of  white  mist 

Columbkill  he  crosses, 
On  his  stately  journeys 

From  Slieveleague  to  Rosses; 
Or  going  up  with  music 

On  cold  starry  nights 
To  sup  with  the  Queen 

Of  the  gay  Northern  Lights. 

They  stole  little  Bridget 

For  se\en  years  long; 
When  she  came  down  again, 

Her  friends  were  all  gone. 
They  took  her  lightly  back, 

Between  the  night  and  morrow; 
They  thought  that  she  was  fast  asleep, 

But  she  was  dead  with  sorrow. 
They  have  kept  her  ever  since 

Deep  within  the  lake, 
On  a  bed  of  flag-leaves. 

Watching  till  she  wake. 

By  the  craggy  hill-side, 

Through  the  mosses  bare. 
They  have  planted  thorn-trees. 

For  pleasure  here  and  there. 
Is  any  man  so  daring 

As  dig  them  uj)  in  spite, 


,^2  LYRIC 

He  shall  find  their  sharpest  thorn* 
In  his  bed  at  night. 

Up  the  airy  mountain, 

Down  the  rushy  glen. 
We  daren't  go  a-hunting 

For  fear  of  little  men. 
Wee  folk,  good  folk, 

Trooping  all  together; 
Green  jacket,  red  cap, 

And  white  owl's  feather  1 


TO   SLEEP 

WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 
One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds,  and  seaa. 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky 
I've  thought  of  all  by  turns;   and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees; 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep!   by  any  stealth: 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away: 
Without  thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  betwixt  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  b':'alth! 


RECESSIONAL  483 

RECESSIONAL 
A  Victorian  Ode 

RUDVARD    KIPLING 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old — 

Lord  of  our  fai'-llung-  hat  lie  line — 
Beneath  whose  awful  hand  we  hold 

Dominion  over  palm  and  pine — 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — Lest  we  forget! 

The  tumult  and  the  shouting  dies — 

The  Captains  and  the  Kings  depart- 
Still  stands  Thine  ancient  sacrifice, 
An  humble  and  a  contrite  heart. 
Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 
Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 

Far-called,  our  navies  melt  away — 
On  dune  and  headland  sinks  the  fire— 

Lo,  all  our  pomp  of  yesterday 
Is  one  with  Nineveh  and  Tyre! 

Judge  of  the  Nations,  spare  us  yet, 

Lest  W'e  forget — lest  we  forget! 

If,  drunk  with  sight  of  power,  we  loose 

Wild  tongues  that  have  not  Thee  in  awe — 

Such  boasting  as  the  Cientiles  use, 
Or  lesser  breeds  without  the  law — - 

Lord  God  of  Hosts,  be  with  us  yet, 

Lest  we  forget — lest  we  forget! 


484  LYRIC 

For  heathen  heart  that  puts  her  trust 
In  reeking  tube  and  iron  shard — 

All  valiant  dust  that  builds  on  dust, 
And  guarding,  calls  not  Thee  to  guard. 

For  frantic  boast  and  foolish  word, 

Thy  Mercy  on  Thy  People,  Lord! 


Amen. 


HER  WORLD 

EMILY    H.    MILLER 

Behind  them  slowly  sank  the  western  world, 
Before  them  new  horizons  opened  wide; 

*'  Yonder,"  he  said,  "  old  Rome  and  Venice  wait. 
And  lovely  Florence  by  the  Arno's  tide." 

She  heard,  but  backward  all  her  heart  had  sped, 

Where  the  young  moon  sailed  through  the  sunset  red; 

"  Yonder,"  she  thought,  "  zvitJi  breathing  soft  and  deep, 

My  little  lad  lies  smiling  in  his  sleep." 

They  sailed  where  Capri  dreamed  upon  the  sea. 

And  Naples  slept  beneath  her  olive-trees; 
They  saw  the  plains  where  trod  the  gods  of  old, 

Pink  with  the  flush  of  wild  anemones. 
They  saw  the  marbles  by  the  master  wrought 
To  shrine  the  heavenly  beauty  of  his  thought. 
Still  rang  one  longing  through  her  smiles  and  sighs: 
"  If  I  could  see  my  little  lad's  sweet  eyes!  " 

Down  from  her  shrine  the  dear  Madonna  gazed. 
Her  baby  lying  warm  against  her  breast. 

"  What  does  she  see?  "  he  whispered;  "  can  she  guess 
The  cruel  thorns  to  those  soft  temples  pressed?  " 


THE  SONG   MY   PADHLE   SINGS  485 

"  All,  no,"  she  said;  "  she  shuts  him  safe  frum  harms, 
Within  the  love-locked  harbor  of  her  arms. 
No  fear  of  coi)ii)ig  fate  could  make  Die  sad, 
If  so,  to-night;  I  held  my  little  lad." 

"  If  you  could  choose,"  he  said,  "  a  royal  boon, 
Like  that  girl  dancing  yonder  for  the  king, 

What  gift  from  all  her  kingdom  would  you  bid 
Obedient  Fortune  in  her  hand  to  bring?  " 

The  dancer's  robe,  the  glittering  banquet  hall 

Swam  in  a  mist  of  tears  along  the  wall. 

"  A^crt  pozi'cr,"  she  said,  "  nor  riches  nor  delight, 

But  just  to  kiss  my  little  lad  to-night!  " 


THE  SONG  MY  PADDLE  SINGS 

E.   PAULINE  JOHNSON 

West  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest ! 

Blow  from  the  mountains,  blow  from  the  west. 

The  sail  is  idle,  the  sailor  too; 

O!   wind  of  the  west,  we  wait  for  you. 

Blow,  blow! 

I  have  wooed  you  so, 

But  never  a  favor  you  bestow. 

You  rock  your  cradle  the  hills  between, 

But  scorn  to  notice  my  white  lateen. 

I  stow  the  sail,  unship  the  mast: 

I  wooed  you  long,  but  my  wooing's  past; 

My  paddle  will  lull  you  into  rest. 

O!   drowsy  wind  of  the  drowsy  west, 


4.8f  LYRIC 

Sleep,  sleep, 

By  your  mountain  steep, 

Or  down  where  the  prairie  grasses  sweep! 

Now  fold  in  slumber  your  laggard  wings, 

For  soft  is  the  song  my  paddle  sings. 

August  is  laughing  across  the  sky, 

Laughing  while  paddle,  canoe,  and  I, 

Drift,  drift. 

Where  the  hills  uplift 

On  either  side  of  the  current  swift. 

The  river  rolls  in  its  rocky  bed; 

My  paddle  is  plying  its  way  ahead; 

Dip,  dip, 

While  the  waters  flip 

In  foam  as  over  their  breast  we  slip. 

And  oh,  the  river  runs  swifter  now; 

The  eddies  circle  about  my  bow. 

Swirl,  swirl! 

How  the  ripples  curl 

In  many  a  dangerous  pool  a  whirl! 

And  forward  far  the  rapids  roar. 

Fretting  their  margin  for  evermore. 

Dash,  dash. 

With  a  mighty  crash. 

They  seethe,  and  boil,  and  bound,  and  splash. 

Be  strong,  O  paddle!  l)e  brave,  canoe! 

The  reckless  waves  you  must  plunge  into. 

Reel,  reel, 

On  your  trem1)ling  keel. 

But  never  a  fear  my  craft  will  feel. 


FATE  4^7 


We've  raced  the  rapid,  we're  far  ahead! 

The  river  slips  through  its  silent  bed. 

Sway,  sway, 

As  the  bubbles  spray 

And  fall  in  tinkling  tunes  away. 

And  up  on  the  hills  against  the  sky, 

A  fir-tree  rocking  its  lullaby, 

Swings,  swings, 

Its  emerald  wings, 

Swelling  the  song  that  my  paddle  sings. 


FATE 

SUSAN    MARK    SPALDING 

Two  shall  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart 
And  speak  in  difTerent  tongues  and  have  no  thought 
Each  of  the  other's  being,  and  no  heed. 

And  these  o'er  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands 
Shall  cross,  escaping  wreck,  defying  death; 
And  all  unconsciously  shape  every  act 
And  bend  each  wandering  step  to  this  one  end, 
Tliat.  one  day,  out  of  darkness,  they  shall  meet 
And  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's  eyes. 

And  two  shall  walk  some  narrow  way  of  life 

So  nearly  side  by  side,  that  should  one  turn 

Ever  so  little  space  to  left  or  right. 

They  needs  must  stand  acknowledged  face  to  face, 

And  yet  with  wishful  eyes  that  never  meet. 


488  LYRIC 

With  groping  hands  that  never  clasp,  and  Hps 
Calhng  in  vain  to  ears  that  never  hear, 
They  seek  each  other  all  their  weary  days 
And  die  unsatisfied — and  that  is  Fate! 


PROSPICE 

ROBERT    BROWNING 

Fear  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm. 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form. 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Tho'  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  for- 
bore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 


THE    RIB  489 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end. 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend. 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain. 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with   God  be  the  rest ! 


THE    RIB 

ERNEST    m'gAFFEY 

A  painter  wrought  him  a  noble  dream,  deep-toiling 

day  and  night. 
The  years  rolled  on  and  the  canvas  dimmed  while 

the  radiant   tints  took   flight, 
And  the  painter  sank  in  an  unmarked  grave,  forlorn 

and  forgotten  quite. 

A  sculptor  chiselled  a  matchless  form  from  out  of  a 

mass  of  stone. 
And  it  seemed  as  though  the  figure  freed  from  the 

hand  of  God  had  grown. 
But  an  earthcjuake  shattered  its  curves  and  lines  and 

the  sculptor  died  unknown. 

So  a  poet  born,  in  sheer  disdain,  laid  by  the  pen  and 

scroll. 
And  sought  a  woman  who  turned  to  him  as  the  needle 

to  the  pole. 
And  he  clasped  her  hand,  and  held  it  fast,  and  loved 

her — body  and  soul. 


'490  LYRIC 

For  the  slow,  insidious  tooth  of  Time  hke  the  water's 

edge  devours, 
And  the  thorns  of  pain  rise  thick  among  Ambition's 

funeral  flowers, 
And  a  man  and  woman  are  all  there  is  in  this  crude 

world  of  ours. 


SONG   OF  THE   CHATTAHOOCHEE 

SIDNEY    LANIER 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Down  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
I  hurry  amain  to  reach  the  plain. 
Run  the  rapid  and  leap  the  fall, 
Split  at  the  rock  and  together  again, 
Accept  my  bed,  or  narrow  or  wide, 
And  flee  from  folly  on  every  side 
With  a  lover's  pain  to  attain  the  plain 

Far  from  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Far  from  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

All  down  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

All  through  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  rushes  cried  Abide,  abide. 
The  wilful  waterweeds  held  me  thrall. 
The  laving  laurel  turned  my  tide. 
The  ferns  and  the  fondling  grass  said  Siay, 
The  dewberry  dipped  for  to  work  delay, 
And  the  little  reeds  sighed  Abide,  abide. 

Here  in  the  liiUs  of  HabersJiam, 

Here  in  the  vallexs  of  Hall. 


SONG   OF   TIIK   CHATTAHOOCHEE  49I 

High  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Veiling  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  hickory  told  me  manifold 
Fair  tales  of  shade,  the  poplar  tall 
Wrought  me  her  shadowy  self  to  hold, 
The  chestnut,  the  oak,  the  walnut,  the  pine, 
Ovcrleaning.  with   tlit-kcring  meaning  and  sign, 
Said,  Pass  not,  so  cold,  these  manifold 

Deep  shades  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

These  glades  iti  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

And  oft  in  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oft  in  the  valleys  of  Hall, 
The  white  quartz  shone,  and  the  smooth  brookstone 
Did  bar  me  of  passage  with  friendly  brawl. 
And  many  a  luminous  jewel  lone 
— Crystals  clear  or  a-cloud  with  mist, 
Ruby,  garnet,  and  amethyst — 
Made  lures  with  the  lights  of  streaming  stone 

In  the  clefts  of  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

In  the  beds  of  the  valleys  of  Hall. 

But  oh,  not  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

And  oh,  not  the  valleys  of  Hall 
Avail :  I  am  fain  for  to  water  the  plain. 
Downward  the  voices  of  Duty  call — 
Downward,  to  toil  and  l)c  mixed  with  the  main, 
The  dry  fields  burn,  and  the  mills  are  to  turn, 
And  a  myriad  flowers  mortally  yearn. 
And  the  lordly  main  from  beyond  the  plain 

Calls  o'er  the  hills  of  Habersham, 

Calls  through  the  valleys  of  Hall. 


DRAMATIC 

THE   FALCON 

ALFRED    LORD    TENNYSON 

DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

The  Count  Federigo  degli  Alberighi. 
FiLiPPO,  Count's  foster-brother. 
The  Lady  Giovanna. 
Elisabetta,  the  Count's  nurse. 

SCENE. — An  Italian  Cottage.  Castle  and  Moun- 
tains seen  through  Window. 

Elisabetta  discovered  seated  on  stool  in  zi'indoiv  darn- 
ing. The  Count  zcith  Falcon  on  his  hand  comes 
dozen  tJirough  the  door  at  back.  A  zi'ithered  zvrcath 
on  the  zvall. 

Elis.  So,  my  lord,  the  Lady  Giovanna,  who  hath 
been  away  so  long,  came  back  last  night  with  her  son 
to  the  castle. 

Count.  Hear  that,  my  bird !  Art  thou  not  jealous 
of  her? 

My  princess  of  the  cloud,  my  plumed  purveyor, 
My  far-eyed  queen  of  the  winds     .     .     . 
(Crosses  to  chair.) 

.     .     .     I  would  thou  hadst  a  mate! 
Thy  breed  will  die  with  thee,  and  mine  with  me: 

493 


494  DRAMATIC 

I  am  as  lone  and  loveless  as  thyself.     (Sits  in  chair.) 
Giovanna  here!     Ay,  ruffle  thyself — be  jealous! 
Thou  should'st  be  jealous  of  her.     Tho'  I  bred  thee 
And  love  thee  and  thou  me,  yet  if  Giovanna 
Be  here  again — No,  no !     Buss  me,  my  bird  1 
The  stately  widow  has  no  heart  for  me. 
Thou  art  the  last  friend  left  me  upon  earth — 
(Rises  and  turns.) 

.     .     .     My  good  old  nurse, 
I  had  forgotten  thou  wast  sitting  there. 

Elis.     Ay,  and  forgotten  thy  foster-brother  too. 

Count.     Bird-babble  for  my  falcon !     Let  it  pass. 
What  art  thou  doing  there? 

Elis.  Darning,  your  lordship. 

We  cannot  flaunt  it  in  new  feathers  now : 
Nay,  if  we  zvill  buy  diamond  necklaces 
To  please  our  lady,  we  must  darn,  my  lord. 
Shame  on  her  that  she  took  it  at  thy  hands. 

Count.     She  would  have  robb'd  me  then  of  a  great 
pleasure. 

Elis.     But  hath  she  yet  return'd  thy  love? 

Count.  Not  yet ! 

Elis.     She  should  return  thy  necklace  then. 

Count.  Ay,  if 

She  knew  the  giver ;  but  I  bound  the  seller 
To  silence,  and  I  left  it  privily 
At  Florence,  in  her  palace. 

Elis.  And  sold  thine  own 

To  buy  it  for  her.     She  not  know  ?     She  knows 
There's  none  such  other 

Count.  Madman  anywhere. 

Speak  freely,  tho'  to  call  a  madman  mad 
Will  hardly  help  to  make  him  sane  again. 


THE    FALCON  495 

Enter  FiLiPPO. 

FiL,  Here  has  our  master  been  a-glorifying  and 
a-velveting  and  a-silking  himself,  and  a-peacocking  and 
a-spreading  to  catch  her  eye  for  a  dozen  year,  till  he 
hasn't  an  eye  left  in  his  own  tail  to  flourish  among  the 
pea-hens,  and  all  along  o'  you,  IVIonna  Giovanna,  all 
along  o'  you ! 

Elis.  Sh — sh — Filippo !  Can't  you  hear  that  you 
are  saying  behind  his  back  what  you  see  you  are  saying 
afore  his  face? 

Count.     Let  him — he  never  spares  me  to  my  face ! 

FiL.  No,  my  lord,  I  never  spare  your  lordship  to  your 
lordship's  face,  nor  behind  your  lordship's  back,  for  Fm 
honest,  your  lordship. 

Count.  Come,  come,  Filippo,  what  is  there  in  the 
larder? 

(Elisabetta    crosses    to    fireplace    and   puts    on 
wood.) 

FiL.  Shelves  and  hooks,  shelves  and  hooks,  and  when 
I  see  the  shelves  I  am  like  to  hang  myself  on  the  hooks. 

Count.     No  bread? 

FiL.  Half  a  breakfast  for  a  rat ! 

Count.     Milk  ? 

FiL.     Three  laps  for  a  cat ! 

Count.     Cheese? 

FiL.     A  supper  for  twelve  mites. 

Count.     Eggs? 

FiL.     One,  but  addled. 

Count.  Let  be  thy  jokes  and  thy  jerks,  man !  Any- 
thing or  nothing? 

FiL.  Well,  my  lord,  if  all-bnt-nothing  be  anything, 
and  one  plate  of  dried  prunes  be  all-but-nothing,  then 
there  is  anything  in  your  lordship's  larder  at  your  lord- 
ship's service,  if  your  lordship  care  to  caI4  for  it. 


496  DRAMATIC 

Count.     Good  mother,  happy  was  the  prodigal  son, 
For  he  return'd  to  the  rich  father ;  I 
But  add  my  poverty  to  thine.     And  all 
Thro'  following  of  my  fancy.     Pray  thee  make 
Thy  slender  meal  out  of  those  scraps  and  shreds 
Filippo  spoke  of.     As  for  him  and  me, 
There  sprouts  a  salad  in  the  garden  still. 

[Exit,  foUozved  by  Filippo. 

Elis.  I  knew  it  would  come  to  this.  She  has  beg- 
gared him.  I  always  knew  it  would  come  to  this  !  (Goes 
up  to  table  as  if  to  resume  darning,  and  looks  out  of  win- 
doiv.)  Why,  as  I  live,  there  is  Monna  Giovanna  coming 
down  the  hill  from  the  castle.  Stops  and  stares  at  our 
cottage.  Ay,  ay !  stare  at  it :  it's  all  you  have  left  us. 
Nay,  see,  why  she  turns  down  the  path  through  our  little 
vineyard.  Coming  to  visit  my  lord,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  too!  Why,  bless  the  saints!  Fll  be  bound  to 
confess  her  love  to  him  at  last.  I  forgive  her,  I  forgive 
her!  (Going  up  to  door  during  latter  part  of  speech  and 
opens  it.)  Come  in.  Madonna,  come  in.  (Retires  to 
front  of  table  and  curtseys  as  the  Lady  Giovanna  enters, 
then  moves  chair  tozvard  the  hearth.)  Nay,  let  me  place 
this  chair  for  your  ladyship. 

("Lady  Giovanna  moves  sloivly  dozvn  stage,  then 
crosses  to  chair,  looking  about  her,  bozvs  as  she 
sees  the  Madonna  over  fireplace,  then  sits  in 
chair.) 

Gio.     Can  I  speak  with  the  Count? 

Elis.  Ay,  my  lady,  but  won't  you  speak  with  the  old 
woman  first,  and  tell  her  all  about  it  and  make  her  happy  ? 
for  Fve  been  on  my  knees  every  day  for  these  half-dozen 
years  in  hope  that  the  saints  would  send  us  this  blessed 
morning;  and  he  always  took  you  so  kindly,  he  always 
took  the  world  so  kindly.      Bless  your  sweet  face,  you 


niK  FA  I. CON  497 

look  as  beautiful  this  morning'  as  the  very  Madonna  her 
own  self.  But  come  when  they  will — then  or  now — it's 
all  for  the  best,  these  marriages.     (Raises  her  Jiands.) 

Gio.     Marriag^es?     I  shall  never  marry  again! 

Elis.  (rises  and  turns).     Shame  on  her  then  I 

Gio.     Where  is  the  Count? 

Elis.  Just  gone 

To  fly  his  falcon. 

Gio.  Call  him  back  and  say 

I  come  to  breakfast  with  him. 

Elis.  Holy  mother ! 

To  breakfast !     Oh  sweet  saints  !   one  plate  of  prunes ! 
Well,  Madam,  I  will  give  your  message  to  him.      [Exit. 

Gio.     His  falcon,  and  I  come  to  ask  for  his  falcon, 
His  one  companion  here — nay,  I  have  heard 
That,  thro'  his  late  magnificence  of  living 
And  this  last  costly  gift  to  mine  own  self, 

(Shoivs  diamond  necklace.) 
He  hath  become  so  beggar'd,  that  his  falcon 
Ev'n  wins  his  dinner  for  him  in  the  field. 
That  must  be  talk,  not  truth,  but  truth  or  talk, 
How  can  I  ask  for  his  falcon? 

(Rises  and  moves  as  she  speaks.) 

O  my  sick  boy ! 
My  daily  fading  Morio,  it  is  thou 
Hath  set  me  this  hard  task,  for  when  I  say 
What  can  I  do — what  can  I  get  for  thee? 
He  answers,  "  Get  the  Count  to  give  me  his  falcon, 
And  that  will  make  me  well."     Yet  if  I  ask, 
He  loves  me,  and  he  knows  I  know  he  loves  me ! 
Will  he  not  pray  me  to  return  his  love — 
To  marry  him ? — (pause) — I  can  never  marry  him. 
His  grandsire  struck  my  grandsire  in  a  brawl 
At  Florence,  and  my  grandsire  stabb'd  him  there. 


498  DRAMATIC 

The  feud  between  our  houses  is  the  bar 
I  cannot  cross;  I  dare  not  brave  my  brother, 
Break  with  my  kin.     My  brother  hates  him,  scorns 
The  noblest-natured  man  ahve,  and  I — 
Who  have  that  reverence  for  him  that  I  scarce 
Dare  beg  him  to  receive  his  diamonds  back — 
How  can  I,  dare  I,  ask  him  for  his  falcon? 
(Puts  diamonds  in  her  casket.) 

Re-enter  Count  and  Filippo.     Count  turns  to  Filippo. 

Count.     Do  what  I  said ;  I  cannot  do  it  myself. 

FiL.     Why  then,  my  lord,  we  are  pauper'd  out  and  out. 

Count.     Do  what  I  said!     (Advances  and  hozvs  lozu.) 
Welcome  to  this  poor  cottage,  my  dear  lady. 

Gio.     And  welcome  turns  a  cottage  to  a  palace. 

Count.     'Tis  long  since  we  have  met ! 

Gio.  To  make  amends 

I  come  this  day  to  break  my  fast  with  you. 

Count.     I  am  much  honor'd — yes 

(Turns  to  Filippo.J 
Do  what  I  told  thee.     Must  I  do  it  myself? 

FiL.     I  will,  I  will.     (Sighs.)     Poor  fellow !       [Exit. 

Count.     Lady,  you  bring  your  light  into  my  cottage 
Who  never  deign 'd  to  shine  into  my  palace. 

Gio.     In  cottage  or  in  palace,  being  still 
Beyond  your  fortunes,  you  are  still  the  king 
Of  courtesy  and  liberality. 

Count.     I  trust  I  still  maintain  my  courtesy; 
My  liberality  perforce  is  dead 
Thro'  lack  of  means  of  giving. 

Gio.  Yet  I  come 

To  ask  a  gift.     (Moves  fozvard  him  a  little.) 

Count,  It  will  be  hard,  I  fear, 


THE    FALCON  499 

To  find  one  shock  upon  the  field  when  all 
The  harvest  has  been  carried. 

Gio.  But  my  boy — 

(Aside.)     No,  no !   not  yet — I  cannot ! 

CouxT.  Ay,  how  is  he, 

That  bright  inheritor  of  your  eyes — your  boy? 

Gig.     Alas,  my  Lord  Federigo,  he  hath  fallen 
Into  a  sickness,  and  it  troubles  me. 

Count.     Sick!   is  it  so?   why,  when  he  came  last  year 
To  see  me  hawking,  he  was  well  enough : 

Gio.     Oh,  yes,  and  once  you  let  him  fly  your  falcon. 

Count.     How   charm'd    he   was!    what   wonder? — A 
gallant  boy, 
A  noble  bird,  each  perfect  of  the  breed. 

Gio.  (sinks  in  chair).     What  do  you  rate  her  at? 

Count.  My  bird  ?   a  hundred 

Gold  pieces  once  were  ofifer'd  by  the  Duke. 
I  had  no  heart  to  part  with  her  for  money. 

Gio.  No,  not  for  money. 

(Count  turns  ai^'ciy  and  sighs.) 
Wherefore  do  you  sigh? 

Count.  I  have  lost  a  friend  of  late. 

Gig.     I  could  sigh  with  you 
For  fear  of  losing  more  than  friend,  a  son ; 
And  if  he  leave  me — all  the  rest  of  life — 
That  wither'd  wreath  were  of  more  worth  to  me. 
(Looking  at  wreath  on  wall.) 

Count.     That  withcrM  wreath  is  of  more  worth  to  me 
Than  all /the  blossom,  all  the  leaf  of  this 
New-wakening  year.     (Goes  and  takes  dozen  zvreath.) 

Gig.  And  yet  I  never  saw 

The  lan<l  so  rich  in  blossom  as  this  year. 

Count   (holding  i\.'reath   tozcard  her).     Was  not  the 
year  when  this  was  gather'd  richer? 


500  DRAMATIC 

Gio.     How  long  ago  was  that? 

Count.  Alas,  ten  summers! 

A  lady  that  was  beautiful  as  day 
Sat  by  me  at  a  rustic  festival, 
And  she  was  the  most  beautiful  of  all ; 
Then  but  fifteen,  and  still  as  beautiful. 
The  mountain  flowers  grew  thickly  round  about. 
I  made  a  wreath  with  some  of  these ;  I  ask'd 
A  ribbon  from  her  hair  to  bind  it  with ; 
I  whisper'd.  Let  me  crown  you  Queen  of  Beauty, 
And  softly  placed  the  chaplet  on  her  head. 
A  color,  which  has  color'd  all  my  life, 
Flush'd  in  her  face ;  then  I  was  call'd  away ; 
And  presently  all  rose,  and  so  departed. 
Ah !  she  had  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the  grass, 
And  there  I  tound  it. 

(Lets   his   hands   fall,    Iwlding   ivrcath    despond- 
ingly.) 

Gig.  (after  pause).     How  long  since,  do  you  say? 

Count.     That  was  the  very  year  before  you  married. 

Gig.     When  I  was  married  you  were  at  the  wars. 

Count.     Had  she  not  thrown  my  chaplet  on  the  grass, 
It  may  be  I  had  never  seen  the  wars. 

(Replaces  wreatJi  zvhence  he  had  taken  it.) 

Gig.     Ah,  but,  my  lord,  there  ran  a  rumor  then 
That  you  were  kill'd  in  battle.     I  can  tell  you 
True  tears  that  year  were  shed  for  you  in  Florence. 

Count.     It  might  have  been  as  well  for  me.    Unhap- 
pily 
I  was  but  wounded  by  the  enemy  there 
And  then  imprison'd. 

Gig.  Happily,  however, 

I  see  you  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound. 

Count.     No,  no,  not  quite.  Madonna,  not  yet,  not  yet. 


THE    FALCON  5OJ 

Rc-cntcr  Fimppo. 

FiL.     My  lord,  a  word  with  you. 

Count.  Pray,  pardon  me! 

(Lady  Giovanna  crosses,  and  passes  heliind  chair 
and  takes  doi\.'n  zireatli;  then  goes  to  chair  by 
table.) 

Count  (to  Filippo).     What  is  it.  FiHppo? 

FiL.     Spoons,  your  lordship. 

Count.  Spoons ! 

FiL.  Yes,  my  lord,  for  wasn't  my  lady  born  with  a 
golden  spoon  in  her  ladyship's  mouth,  and  we  haven't 
never  so  much  as  a  silver  one  for  the  golden  lips  of  her 
ladyship. 

Count.     Have  we  not  half  a  score  of  silver  spoons? 

FiL.     Half  o'  one,  my  lord ! 

Count.     How  half  of  one? 

FiL.  I  trod  upon  him  even  now,  my  lord,  in  my 
hurry,  and  broke  him. 

CoUxNT.     And  the  other  nine? 

FiL.  Sold !  but  shall  I  not  mount  with  your  lordship's 
leave  to  her  ladyship's  castle,  in  your  lordship's  and  her 
ladyship's  name,  and  confer  with  her  ladyship's  sene- 
schal, and  so  descend  again  with  some  of  her  ladyship's 
own  appurtenances? 

Count.  Wliy — no,  man.  Only  see  your  cloth  be 
clean.  [Exit  Filippo. 

Gio.     Ay,  ay,  this  faded  ribbon  was  the  mode 
In  Florence  ten  years  back.     What's  here?  a  scroll 
Pinned  to  the  wreath. 

]\Iy  lord,  you  have  said  so  much 
Of  this  poor  wreath  that  I  was  bold  enough 
To  take  it  down,  if  but  to  guess  what  flowers 
Had  made  it ;  and  I  find  a  written  scroll 
That  seems  to  run  in  rhymings.     Might  I  read? 


502 


DRAMATIC 


Count.     Ay,  if  you  will. 
Gio.     It  should  be  if  you  can. 
(Reads.) 
"  Dead  mountain."     Nay,  for  who  could  trace  a  hand 
So  wild  and  staggering? 

Count.  This  was  penn'd,  Madonna, 

In  the  perpetual  twilight  of  a  prison, 
When  he  that  made  it,  having  his  right  hand 
Lamed  in  the  battle,  wrote  it  with  his  left. 

Gio.     O  heavens  !    the  very  letters  seem  to  shake 
With  cold,  with  pain  perhaps,  poor  prisoner!     Well, 
Tell  me  the  words — or  better — for  I  see 
There  goes  a  musical  score  along  with  them, 
Repeat  them  to  their  music. 

Count.  You  can  touch 

No  chord  in  me  that  would  not  answer  you 
In  music. 

Gio.  That  is  musically  said. 

(Count  takes  guitar.    Lady  Giovanna  sits  listen- 
ing zi'ith   wreatli   in   her  hand,   and  quietly  re- 
moves scroll  a>id  places  it  on  table  at  the  end  of 
the  song.) 
Count    (sings,    playi)ig    guitar).      "  Dead    mountain 
flowers,  dead  mountain-meadow  flowers. 
Dearer  than  when  you  made  your  mountain  gay, 
Sweeter  than  any  violet  of  to-day, 
Richer  than  all  the  wide  w^orld-wealth  of  May, 
To  me,  tho'  all  your  bloom  has  died  away. 
You  bloom  again,  dead  mountain-meadow  flowers." 

Enter  Elisabetta  with  cloth,  li'Jiich  she  spreads  on  the 
table,  and  goes  out. 

Gio.  (holding  zereath  tozcard  him).     There!   my  lord, 
you  are  a  poet, 


IHK    FALCON  503 

And  can  you  not  imagine  that  the  wreath, 
Set,  as  yon  say,  so  hghtly  on  her  head, 
Fell  with  her  motion  as  she  rose,  and  she, 
A  girl,  a  child,  then  but  fifteen,  however 
Flutter'd  or  flatter'd  by  your  notice  of  her, 
Was  yet  too  bashful  to  return  for  it  ? 

Count.     Was  it  so  indeed?  was  it  so?  was  it  so? 

(Leans  forward  to  take  wreath,  and  touches  Lady 
Giovanna's   hand,   wliich   slic   witJidraws   has- 
tily; he  l^laces  wreath  on  corner  of  chair.) 
Gio.  (zcith  dignity).     I  did  not  say,  my  lord,  that  it 
was  so ; 
I  said  you  might  imagine  it  was  so. 

Enter  Filippo  i^'itli  bowl  of  salad,  ivJiich  he  places  on 

table. 

FiL.  Here's  a  fine  salad  for  my  lady,  for  tho'  we  have 
been  a  soldier,  and  ridden  by  his  lordship's  side,  and  seen 
the  red  of  the  battle-field,  yet  are  we  now  drill-sergeant 
to  his  lordship's  lettuces,  and  profess  to  be  great  in  green 
things  and  in  garden-stuff. 

Gio.     I  thank  thee,  good  Filippo.  [Exit  Filippo. 

Enter  Elisabetta  icith  bird  on  a  dish  zchich  she  places 
on  table. 

Elis.  (close  to  table).  Here's  a  fine  fowl  for  my  lady ; 
I  had  scant  time  to  do  him  in.  I  hope  he  be  not  under- 
done, for  we  be  undone  in  the  doing  of  him. 

Gio.     I  thank  you,  my  good  nurse. 

FiL.  (re-entering  witJi  plate  of  prunes).  And  here  are 
fine  fruits  for  my  lady — prunes,  my  lady,  from  the  tree 
that  my  lord  himself  jilanted  here  in  the  blossom  of  his 
boyhood — and  so  I,  Filippo,  bem^,  with  your  ladyship's 


504  DRAMATIC 

pardon,  and  as  your  ladyship  knows,  his  lordship's  own 
foster-brother,  would  commend  them  to  your  ladyship's 
most  peculiar  appreciation.     (Puts  plate  on  table.) 

Elis.     Filippo ! 

Gio.   (Count  leads  her  to  table).     Will  you  not  eat 
with  me,  my  lord? 

Count.  I  cannot, 

Not  a  morsel,  not  one  morsel.  I  have  broken 
My  fast  already.  I  will  pledge  you.  Wine! 
Filippo,  wine ! 

(Sits  near  table;  Filippo  brings  flask,  tills  the 
Count's  goblet,  then  Lady  Giovanna's;  Elisa- 
BETTA  stands  at  the  back  of  Lady  Giovanna's 
chair.) 

It  is  but  thin  and  cold. 
Not  like  the  vintage  blowing  round  your  castle. 
We  lie  too  deep  down  in  the  shadow  here. 
Your  ladyship  lives  higher  in  the  sun. 

(They  pledge  each  other  and  drink.) 

Gio.     If  I  might  send  you  down  a  flask  or  two 
Of  that  same  vintage?     There  is  iron  in  it. 
It  has  been  much  commended  as  a  medicine. 
I  give  it  my  sick  son,  and  if  you  be 
Not  quite  recover'd  of  your  wound,  the  wine 
Might  help  you.     None  has  ever  told  me  yet 
The  story  of  your  battle  and  your  wound. 

FiL.  (coming  forward).     I  can  tell  you,  my  lady,  I  can 
tell  you. 

Elis.     Filippo !    will  you  take  the  word  out  of  your 
master's  own  mouth? 

FiL.     Was  it  there  to  take?     Put  it  there,  my  lord. 

Count.     Giovanna,  my  dear  lady,  in  this  same  battle 
We  had  been  beaten — they  were  ten  to  one. 
Thr.  trumpets  of  the  fight  had  echo'd  down. 


THE    FALCON  505 

I  and  Filippo  here  had  done  our  best, 

And,  having  passed  unvvounded  from  the  field, 

Were  seated  sadly  at  a  fountain  side, 

Our  horses  grazing  by  us,  when  a  troop, 

Laden  with  booty  and  with  a  flag  of  ours 

Ta'en  in  the  fight 

FiL.  Ay,  but  we  fought  for  it  back, 

And  kiird 

Elis.  Filippo ! 

Count.  A  troop  of  horse 

FiL.  Five  hundred ! 

Count.     Say  fifty ! 

FiL.     And  we  kill'd  'em  by  the  score ! 

Elis.     Filippo ! 

FiL.  Well,  well,  well !     I  bite  my  tongue. 

Count.     We  may  have  left  their  fifty  less  by  five. 
However,  staying  not  to  count  how  many, 
But  anger'd  at  their  flaunting  of  our  flag, 
We  mounted,  and  we  dash'd  into  the  heart  of  'em. 
I  wore  the  lady's  chaplet  round  my  neck ; 
It  served  me  for  a  blessed  rosary. 
I  am  sure  that  more  than  one  brave  fellow  owed 
His  death  to  the  charm  in  it. 

Elis.    .  Hear  that,  my  lady! 

Count.     I  cannot  tell  how  long  we  strove  before 
Our  horses  fell  beneath  us ;  down  we  went 
Crush'd,  hack'd  at,  trami)lcd  underfoot.     The  night, 
As  some  cold-mamier'd  friend  may  strangely  do  us 
The  truest  service,  had  a  touch  of  frost 
That  help'd  to  check  the  flowing  of  the  blood. 
My  last  sight  ere  I  swoon 'd  was  one  sweet  face 
Crown 'd  with  the  wreath.     TJiat  seem'd  to  come  and  go. 
They  left  us  there  for  dead  ! 

Elis,  Hear  that,  my  lady! 


5o6  DRAMATIC 

FiL.     Ay,  and  I  left  two  fingers  there  for  dead.     See, 
my  lady  !     (SJiowing  Jiis  Jiand.) 

Gig.     I  see,  Filippo ! 

FiL.     And  I  have  small  hope  of  the  gentleman  gout  in 
my  great  toe. 

Gio.     And  why,  Filippo?     (Smiling  absently.) 

FiL.     I  left  him  there  for  dead  too ! 

Elis.     She  smiles  at  him — how  hard  the  woman  is ! 
My  lady,  if  your  ladyship  were  not 
Too  proud  to  look  upon  the  garland,  you 
Would  find  it  stain'd 

Count  (rising).  Silence,  Elisabetta! 

Elis.    Stain'd  with  the  blood  of  the  best  heart  that  ever 
Beat  for  one  woman.     (Points  to  zvrcath  on  chair.) 

Gig.  (rising  slondy).     I  can  eat  no  more! 

Count.     You  have  but  trifled  with  our  homely  salad, 
But  dallied  with  a  single  lettuce-leaf; 
Not  eaten  anything. 

Gig.     Nay,  nay,  I  cannot. 
You  know,  my  lord,  I  told  you  I  was  troubled. 
My  one  child  Florio  lying  still  so  sick, 
I  bound  myself,  and  by  a  solemn  vow, 
That  I  would  touch  no  flesh  till  he  were  well 
Here,  or  else  well  in  Heaven,  where  all  is  well. 

(Elisabetta  clears  table  of  bird  and  salad: 
FiLiPPG  snatches  up  the  plate  of  prunes  and 
holds  them  to  Lady  Gigvanna.) 

FiL.     But  the  prunes,  my  lady,  from  the  tree  that  his 
lordship 

Gio.     Not  now,  Filippo.     My  lord  Federigo, 
Can  I  not  speak  with  you  once  more  alone? 

Count.     You  hear,  Filippo?     My  good  fellow,  go! 

FiL.     But  the  prunes  that  your  lordship 

Elis.     Filippo ! 


THE   FALCON  507 

Count.     Ay,  prune  our  company  of  thine  own  and  go! 

Elis.     Filippo! 

FiL.  (ti(r)ii)ig).     Well,  well !  the  women  !  [Exit. 

Count.     And  thou  too  leave  us,  my  dear  nurse,  alone. 

Eli.s.  (foliiii!!^  11  f^  cloth  and  o-o/;/_j^j.     And  me  too! 
( Tunis  ami  curtseys  sfifHy   to   L.\F)Y   Giovanna, 
then  exit.     Ladv  (Iio\-anna  takes  out  diamond 
necklace  from  casket.) 

Gig.     My  lord,  I  have  a  present  to  return  you, 
And  afterward  a  boon  to  crave  of  you. 

Count.     No,  my  most  honor'd  and  long-worshipt  lady, 
Poor  Federigo  degli  Alberighi 
Takes  notliing  in  return  from  you  except 
Return  of  his  aiTtection — can  deny 
Nothing  to  you  that  you  require  of  him. 

Gio.     Then    I    recjuire    you    to    take    back   your    dia- 
monds—     (Offerinij;  necklace.) 
I  doubt  not  they  are  yours.     No  other  heart 
Of  such  magnificence  in  courtesy 
Beats — out  of  heaven.     They  sccm'd  too  rich  a  prize 
To  trust  with  any  messenger.     I  came 
In  person  to  return  them.     (Count  draws  hack.) 

If  the  ]:)hrase 
"  Return  "  dis])lease  you,  we  will  say — exchange  them 
For  your — for  your 

Count  (takes  a  step  toward  her  and  then  back).     For 
mine — and  what  of  mine? 

Gio.     Well,  shall  we  say  this  wreath  and  your  sweet 
rhymes  ? 

Count.     But  have  you  ever  worn  my  diamonds? 

Gio.  No! 

For  that  would  seem  accepting  of  your  love. 
I  cannot  brave  my  brother — but  be  sure 
That  I  shall  never  marry  again,  my  lord! 


50»  DRAMATIC 

Count.  Sure  ? 

Gio.  Yes ! 

Count.     Is  this  your  brother's  order? 

Gio.  No  ! 

For  he  would  marry  me  to  the  richest  man 
In  Florence ;  but  I  think  you  know  the  saying — 
"  Better   a   man   without    riches,   than    riches   without  a 
man." 

Count.     A  noble  saying — and  acted  on  would  yield 
A  nobler  breed  of  men  and  women.     Lady, 
I  find  you  a  shrewd  bargainer.     The  wreath 
That  once  you  wore  outvalues  twentyfold 
The  diamonds  that  you  never  deign'd  to  wear. 
But  lay  them  there  for  a  moment ! 

(Points  to  table.      Lady  Giovanna  places  neck- 
lace on  table.)  ^^^^  be  you 
Gracious  enough  to  let  me  know  the  boon 
By  granting  which,  if  aught  be  mine  to  grant, 
I  should  be  made  more  happy  than  I  hoped 
Ever  to  be  again. 

Gio.     Then  keep  your  wreath, 
But  you  will  find  me  a  shrewd  bargainer  still. 
I  cannot  keep  your  diamonds,  for  the  gift 
I  ask  for,  to  my  mind  and  at  this  present 
Outvalues  all  the  jewels  upon  earth. 

Count.     It  should  be  love  that  thus  outvalues  all 
You  speak  like  love,  and  yet  you  love  me  not. 
I  have  nothing  in  this  world  but  love  for  you. 

Gio.     Love?  it  is  love,  love  for  my  dying  boy, 
Moves  me  to  ask  it  of  you. 

Count.  What?  my  time? 

Is  it  my  time  ?     Well,  I  can  give  my  time 
To  him  that  is  a  part  of  you.  your  son. 
Shall  I  return  to  the  castle  with  you  ?     Shall  I 


THE    FALCON  $09 

Sit  by  him,  read  to  him,  loll  him  my  tales, 

Sing  him  my  songs?     You  know  tliat  I  can  touch 

The  ghittern  to  some  i)urpose. 

Gig.  No,  not  that ! 

I  thank  you  heartily  for  that — and  you, 
I  doubt  not  from  your  nobleness  of  nature, 
Will  pardon  me  for  asking  what  I  ask. 

Count.     Giovanna,  dear  Giovanna,  I  that  once 
The  wildest  of  the  random  youth  of  Florence 
Before  I  saw  you — all  my  nobleness 
Of  nature,  as  you  deign  to  call  it,  draws 
From  you,  and  from  my  constancy  to  you. 
No  more,  but  speak. 

Gio.     I  will.     You  know  sick  people, 
More  specially  sick  children,  have  strange  fancies, 
Strange  longings ;  and  to  thwart  them  in  their  mood 
May  work  them  grievous  harm  at  times,  may  even 
Hasten  their  end.     I  would  you  had  a  son  ! 
It  might  be  easier  then  for  you  to  make 
Allowance  for  a  mother — her — who  comes 
To  rob  you  of  your  one  delight  on  earth. 
How  often  has  my  sick  boy  yearn'd  for  this! 
I  have  put  him  off  as  often ;  but  to-day 
I  dared  not — so  much  weaker,  so  much  worse 
For  last  day's  journey.     I  was  weeping  for  him; 
He  gave  me  his  hand :  "  I  should  be  well  again 
If  the  good  Count  would  give  me " 

Count.  Give  me.'- 

Gig.     His  falcon. 

Count  (starts  back).     My  falcon  ! 

Gig.     Yes,  your  falcon,  Federigo ! 

Count.  Alas,  I  cannot! 

Gio.     Cannot?     Even  so! 
I  fear'd  as  much.     O  this  unhappy  world ! 


5IO  DRAMATIC 

How  shall  I  break  it  to  him?  how  shall  I  tell  him? 

The  boy  may  die :  more  blessed  were  the  rags 

Of  some  pale  beggar-woman  seeking  alms 

For  her  sick  son,  if  he  were  like  to  live, 

Than  all  my  childless  wealth,  if  mine  must  die. 

I  was  to  blame — the  love  you  said  you  bore  me — 

My  lord,  we  thank  you  for  your  entertainment. 

(With  a  stately  curtsey.) 
And  so  return — Heaven  help  him  ! — to  our  son.    (Turns.) 

Count  (rushes  foricard).     Stay,  stay,  I  am  most  un- 
lucky, most  unhappy. 
You  never  had  look'd  in  on  me  before, 
And  when  you  came  and  dipt  your  sovereign  head 
Thro'  these  low  doors,  you  ask'd  to  eat  with  me. 
I  had  but  emptiness  to  set  before  you, 
No  not  a  draught  of  milk,  no  not  an  egg, 
Nothing  but  my  brave  bird,  my  noble  falcon, 
My  comrade  of  the  house,  and  of  the  field. 
She  had  to  die  for  it — she  died  for  you. 
Perhaps  I  thought  with  those  of  old,  the  nobler 
The  victim  was,  the  more  acceptable 
Might  be  the  sacrifice.     I  fear  you  scarce 
Will  thank  me  for  your  entertainment  now. 

Gig.  (returning).     I  bear  with  him  no  longer. 

Count.  No,  Madonna! 

And  he  will  have  to  bear  with  it  as  he  may. 

Gig.     I  break  with  him  for  ever ! 

Count.  Yes,  Giovanna, 

But  he  will  keep  his  love  to  you  for  ever ! 

Gig.     You  ?  you  ?   not   you !     My  brother !   my   hard 
brother ! 
O  Federigo,  Federigo,  I  love  you ! 
Spite  of  ten  thousand  brothers,  Federigo. 
(Falls  at  his  feet. ) 


THE    FALCON  5II 

Count   (impetuously).      Why  then  the  dying  of  my 

noble  bird 
Hath  served  me  better  than  her  hving — then 

(Takes  diamonds  from  tabic.) 
Tlicse  diamonds  are  both  yours  and  mine — have  won 
Their  value  again — beyond  all  markets — there 
I  lay  them  for  the  first  time  round  your  neck. 

(Lays  necklace  round  her  neck.) 
And  theti  this  chaplet — Xo  more  feuds,  but  peace, 
Peace  and  conciliation !     I  will  make 
Your  brother  love  me.     See,  I  tear  away 
The  leaves  were  darken'd  by  the  battle — 

(Pulls  leaves  off  and  throzcs  them  dozen.) 

— crown  you 
Again  with  the  same  crown  my  Queen  of  Beauty. 

(Places  X'.n-eatJi  on  her  head.) 
Rise — I  could  almost  think  that  the  dead  garland 
Will  break  once  more  into  the  living  blossom. 
Nay,  nay,  I  pray  you  rise.     (Raises  her  with  both  hands.) 

We  two  together 
Will  help  to  heal  your  son — your  son  and  mine — 
We  shall  do  it — we  shall  do  it.     (Embraces  her.) 
The  purpose  of  my  being  is  accomplish'd, 
And  I  am  happy ! 

Gig.  And  I  too,  Federigo. 


RICHELIEU 

EDWARD    LORD    LYTTON 

[The  influence  of  Cardinal  Richelieu,  prime  minister  of  France, 
is  being  slowly  undermined  by  a  band  of  conspirators  headed  by 
Baradas,  De  Beringhen,  and  the  brother  of  the  King.  The  only 
chance  to  defeat  the  conspiracy  lies  in  the  discovery  of  a  certain 
document  written  by  the  conspirators,  which  has  been  lost,  and  to 
recover  which  Francois  Huguet  has  been  selected  by  the  Cardinal. 
The  King  is  in  love  with  Julie,  the  ward  of  Richelieu,  and  wife  of 
de  Mauprat,  who  has  been  sent  to  prison.  Under  ordinary  cir- 
cumstances Richelieu  would  have  been  able  to  protect  her  and  to 
rescue  her  husband.  The  King's  ear,  however,  has  been  poisoned 
by  the  conspirators,  and  Richelieu's  failing  health  and  waning  in- 
fluence encourage  them  to  attempt  his  overthrow  and  so  to  accom- 
plish their  purpose  to  dethrone  the  King.  The  present  scene  opens 
with  Richelieu  in  conversation  with  Joseph,  his  confidant.] 

Richelieu.     Joseph — Did  you  hear  the  King? 

Joseph.     I  did — there's  danger !     Had  yon  been  less 
haughty 

Rich.     And    suffered    slaves    to    chuckle — "  See    the 
Cardinal — 
How  meek  his  Eminence  is  to-day !  " — I  tell  thee 
This  is  a  strife  in  which  the  loftiest  look 
Is  the  most  subtle  armor 

Jos.  But 

Rich.  No  time 

For  ifs  and  bttts.     I  will  accuse  these  traitors ! 
I  will— I  will 

Jos.  Tush  !     Frangois  is  your  creature ; 

So  they  will  say,  and  laugh  at  you ! — your  witness 
Must  be  that  same  Despatch. 

<}I2 


KKIIKLIKU  513 

Rich.  Away  to  Marion! 

Jos.     I    have    been    there — she    is    seized — removed — 
imprisoned — 
By  the  Count's  orders. 

Rich.  Goddess  of  bright  dreams, 

My  country — shalt  thou  lose  rne  now,  when  most 
Thou  need'st  thy  worshipper?     My  native  land! 
Let  me  but  ward  this  dagger  from  thy  heart, 
And  die — but  on  thy  bosom ! 

Enter  Julie. 

Julie.  Heaven  !    I  thank  thee  1 

It  cannot  be,  or  this  all-powerful  man 
Would  not  stand  idly  thus. 

Rich.  What  dost  tJiou  here? 

Home! 

Julie.     Home! — is  Adricn  there? — you're  dumb — ye\ 
strive 
For  words ;  I  see  them  trembling  on  your  lip, 
But  choked  by  pity.     It  z^x^s  truth — all  truth  ! 
Seized — the  Bastile — and  in  your  presence,  tool 
Cardinal,  where  is  Adrien  ? — Think — he  saved 
Your  life: — your  name  is  infamy,  if  wrong 
Should  come  to  his ! 

Rich.  Be  soothed,  child. 

Julie.  Child  no  more; 

I  love,  and  I  am  woman!     Hope  and  suffer — 
Love,  suffering,  hope, — what  else  doth  make  the  strength 
And  majesty  of  woman  ? — Where  is  Adrien  ? 

Rich,  {to  Joseph).     Your  youth  was  never  young — 
you  never  loved  : — 
Speak  to  her 

Jos.                    Nay,  take  heed — the  King's  command, 
'Tis  true — I  mean — the 


514  DRAMATIC 

Julie  (to  Richelieu).     Let  thine  eyes  meet  mine; 
Answer  me  but  one  word — I  am  a  wife — 
I  ask  thee  for  my  home — my  fate — my  all  ! 
Where  is  my  hnshand? 

Rich.  Yon  are  Richelieu's  ward, 

A  soldier's  bride :  they  who  insist  on  truth 
Must  outface  fear; — you  ask  me  for  your  husband? 
There — where  the  clouds  of  heaven  look  darkest,  o'er 
The  domes  of  the  Bastile ! 

Julie.  I  thank  you,  father; 

You  see  I  do  not  shudder.     Heaven  forgive  you 
The  sin  of  this  desertion ! 

Rich,   (detaining  her).     Whither  wouldst  thou? 

Julie.     Stay  me  not.     Fie  !     I  should  be  there  already. 
I  am  thy  ward,  and  haply  he  may  think 
Thou'st  taught  mc  also  to  forsake  the  wretched ! 

Rich.     I've  filled  those  cells — with  many — traitors  alL 
Had  they  wives  too  ? — Thy  memories,  Power,  are  solemn ! 
Poor  sufferer ! — think'st  thou  that  yon  gates  of  woe 
Unbar  to  love?     Alas!    if  love  once  enter, 
'Tis  for  the  last  farewell ;  between  those  walls 
And  the  mute  grave — the  blessed  household  sounds 
Only  heard  once — while,  hungering  at  the  door, 
The  headsman  whets  the  axe. 

Julie.  O  mercy  !  mercy ! 

Save  him,  restore  him,  father !     Art  thou  not 
The  Cardinal-King — the  Lord  of  life  and  death — • 
Beneath  whose  light,  as  deeps  beneath  the  moon, 
The  solemn  tides  of  Empire  ebb  and  flow? — 
Art  not  thou  Richelieu? 

Rich.  Yesterday  I  was ! — 

To-day,  a  very  weak  old  man ! — To-morrow, 
I  know  not  what ! 

Julie.  Do  von  conceive  his  meanin^i;^? 


RICIIELIKU  515 

Alas !    I  cannot.     But,  methinks,  my  senses 
Are  duller  than  they  were ! 

Jos.  The  Xing'  is  chafed 

Against  his  servant.     Lady,  while  we  sj)eak, 
The  lackey  of  the  anteroom  is  not 
More  powerless  than  the  Minister  of  France. 

Rich.     And  yet  the  air  is  still ;  Heaven  wears  no  cloud  ; 
From  Nature's  silent  orbit  starts  no  portent 
To  warn  the  unconscious  world  ; — albeit  this  night 
May  with  a  morrow  teem  which,  in  mv  fall. 
Would  carry  earthquake  to  remotest  lands, 
And  change  the  Christian  globe.      What  wouldst  thou, 

woman  ? 
Thy  fate  and  his,  with  mine,  for  good  or  ill, 
Are  woven  threads.     In  my  vast  sum  of  life 
Millions  such  units  merge. 

Enter  First  Courtier. 

First  C.  Madame  de  Mauprat ! 

Pardon,  your  lunincnce — even  now  I  seek 
This  lady's  home — commanded  by  the  King 
To  pray  her  presence. 

Julie   (cli)iging  to  Richelieu).     Think  of  my  dead 
father  !— 
Think  how,  an  infant,  clinging  to  your  knees, 
And  looking  to  your  eyes,  the  wrinkled  care 
Fled  from  your  brow  before  the  smile  of  childhood, 
Fresh  from  the  dews  of  heaven !     Think  of  this, 
And  take  me  to  your  breast. 

Rich.  To  those  who  sent  you! — 

And  say  you  found  the  virtue  they  would  slay 
Here — couched  upon  this  heart,  as  at  an  altar, 
And  sheltered  by  the  wings  of  sacred  Rome ! 
Begone ! 


5l6  DRAMATIC 

First  C.     My  Lord,  I  am  your  friend  and  servant — 
Misjudge  me  not;  but  never  yet  was  Louis 
So  roused  against  you: — shall  I  take  this  answer? — 
It  were  to  be  your  foe. 

Rich.  All  time  my  foe, 

If  I,  a  Priest,  could  cast  this  holy  Sorrow 
Forth  from  her  last  asylum ! 

First  C.  He  is  lost ! 

[Exit  First  Courtier. 

Rich.     God  help  thee,  child ! — she  hears  not !     Look 
upon  her ! 
The  storm  that  rends  the  oak,  uproots  the  flower. 
Her  father  loved  me  so !  and  in  that  age 
When  friends  are  brothers !     She  has  been  to  me 
Soother,  nurse,  plaything,  daughter.     Are  these  tears? 
O  shame,  shame  ! — dotage ! 

Jos.  Tears  are  not  for  eyes 

That  rather  need  the  lightning,  which  can  pierce 
Through  barred  gates  and  triple  walls,  to  smite 
Crime,  where  it  cowers  in  secret ! — The  Despatch ! 
Set  every  spy  to  work ; — the  morrow's  sun 
Must  see  that  written  treason  in  your  hands, 
Or  rise  upon  your  ruin. 

Rich.  Ay — and  close 

Upon  my  corpse ! — I  am  not  made  to  live — 
Friends,  glory,  France,  all  reft  from  me ; — my  star 
Like  some  vain  holiday  mimicry  of  fire, 
Piercing  imperial  heaven,  and  falling  down, 
Rayless  and  blackened,  to  the  dust — a  thing 
For  all  men's  feet  to  trample  !     Yea  ! — to-morrow 
Triumph  or  death  !     Look  up,  child ! — Lead  us,  Joseph. 
(As  they  arc  going  out,  enter  Baradas  and  De 
Beringhen.j 

Baradas.     My   Lord,   the   King  cannot  believe  youi 
Eminence 


RICIIKMEU  517 

So  far  forgets  your  duty,  aud  his  greatness, 
As  to  resist  his  mandate !     Pray  you,  Madam, 
Obey  the  King — no  cause  for  fear ! 

Julie.  My  father! 

Rich.     She  shall  not  stir! 

Bar.  You  are  not  of  her  kindred — 

An  orphan 

Rich.  And  her  country  is  her  mother! 

Bar.     The  country  is  the  King ! 

Rich.  Ay,  is  it  so? — 

Then  wakes  the  power  which  in  the  age  of  iron 
Burst  forth  to  curb  the  great,  and  raise  the  low. 
Mark,  where  she  stands ! — around  her  form  I  draw 
The  awful  circle  of  our  solemn  Church! 
Set  but  a  foot  within  that  holy  ground, 
And  on  thy  head—  yea,  though  it  wore  a  crown — 
I  launch  the  curse  of  Rome ! 

Bar.  I  dare  not  brave  you! 

I  do  but  speak  the  orders  of  my  King. 
The  Church,  your  rank,  power,  very  word,  my  Lord, 
Suffice  you  for  resistance : — blame  yourself. 
If  it  should  cost  you  power! 

Rich.  That  my  stake. — Ah! 

Dark  gamester!  ic/iat  is  thine f     Look  to  it  well! — 
Lose  not  a  trick. — By  this  same  hour  to-morrow 
Thou  shalt  have  France,  or  I  thy  head ! 

Bar.  {aside  to  De  Beringhen).  He  cannot 

Have  the  Despatch? 

De  Ber.  No  :  were  it  so,  your  stake 

Were  lost  already. 

Jos.  (aside).  Patience  is  your  game: 

Reflect,  you  have  not  the  Despatch ! 

Rich.  O  monk! 

Leave  patience  to  the  saints — for  /  am  human ! 


5l8  DRAMATIC 

Did  not  thy  father  die  for  France,  poor  orphan? 
And  now  they  say  thou  hast  no  father! — Fie! 
Art  thou  not  pure  and  good? — if  so,  thou  art 
A  part  of  that — the  Beautiful,  the  Sacred — 
Which,  in  all  climes,  men  that  have  hearts  adore, 
By  the  great  title  of  their  mother  country ! 

Bar.  (aside).     He  wanders! 

Rich.  So  cling  close  unto  my  breast 

Here    where    thou    droop'st    lies    France !      I    am    verj 

feeble — 
Of  little  use  it  seems  to  either  now. 
Well,  well — we  will  go  home. 

Bar.  In  sooth,  my  Lord, 

You  do  need  rest — the  burdens  of  the  State 
O'ertask  your  health ! 

Rich,  (to  Joseph).       Fm  patient,  see! 

Bar.  (aside).  His  mind 

And  life  are  breaking  fast ! 

Rich,  (overhearing  him).     Irreverent  ribald  I 
If  so,  beware  the  falling  ruins  !     Hark  ! 
I  tell  thee,  scorner  of  these  whitening  hairs. 
When  this  snow  melteth  there  shall  come  a  flood ! 
Avaunt !  my  name  is  Richelieu — I  defy  thee ! 
Walk  blindfold  on  ;  behind  thee  stalks  the  headsman. 
Ha  !  ha  ! — how  pale  he  is  !     Heaven  save  my  country  ! 
(Falls  back  in  Joseph's  arms.) 
("Baradas  exit,  folloived  by  De  Beringhen,  be- 
traying his  exultation  by  his  gestures.) 


ARAIGART 

GEORGE    ELIOT 

[Armgart,  a  young  singer,  is  making  her  first  appearance,  as 
Orpheus,  in  Glucks  opera,  "  Orpheus  and  Eurydice."  Graf 
DORNBERG,  a  nobleman  in  love  with  Armgart,  hurries  to  her 
salon  from  his  diplomatic  mission  to  await  her  return  from  the 
opera  house.  Armgart's  cousin,  the  lame  Walpurga,  is  with 
him.  J 

SCENE  I. — A  Salon  lit  icit/i  lajiips  and  otnanuvitcd  n'ith 
green  plants.  An  open  piano,  zcit/i  ina)iy  scattered 
'ihcets  of  music.  Bron::e  busts  of  Beethoi'en  and 
Cluck  on  pillars  opposite  each  other.  A  s)nall  table 
spread  icith  supper.  Enter  Leo  zcith  a  zcreath  in  his 
hand,  holding  the  door  open  for  Armgart,  who  zvears 
a  furred  mantle  and  hood.  She  is  followed  by  her 
maid,  carrying  an  armful  of  bouquets. 

Leo.     Place  for  the  queen  of  song ! 

Graf   (advancing  tozvard  Armgart,  zvho  tJiroi^.'s  off 

her  hood  and  mantle,  and  shows  a  star  of  brilliants  in  her 

hair).  .    ,  .         i     .u 

^  A  truimph,  then. 

You  will  not  be  a  niggard  of  your  joy 

And  chide  the  eagerness  that  came  to  share  it. 

Armgart.     O  kind  !  you  hastened  your  return  for  me. 

I  would  you  had  been  there  to  hear  me  sing ! 

Walpurga,  kiss  me :  never  tremble  more 

Lest  Armgart's  wing  should  fail  her.     .     .     . 

,     .     .     Tell  them,  Leo,  tell  them 

How  I  outsang  your  hope  and  made  you  cry 

519 


520  DRAMATIC 

Because  Gluck  could  not  hear  me.     That  was  folly ! 
He  sang,  not  listened :  every  linked  note 
Was  his  immortal  pulse  that  stirred  in  mine, 
And  all  my  gladness  is  but  part  of  him. 
(She  croivns  the  bust  of  Gluck.j 

Leo  (sardonically).  Ay,  ay,  but  mark  you  this, 

It  was  not  part  of  him — that  trill  you  made 
In  spite  of  me  and  reason ! 

Arm.  You  were  wrong — 

Dear  Leo,  you  were  wrong:  the  house  was  held 
As  if  a  storm  were  listening  with  delight 
And  hushed  its  thunder. 

Leo.  Will  you  ask  the  house 

To  teach  you  singing?     Quit  your  Orpheus  then, 
And  sing  in  farces  grown  to  operas. 
Where  all  the  prurience  of  the  full-fed  mob 
Is  tickled  with  melodic  impudence : 
Jerk  forth  burlesque  bravuras,  square  your  arms 
Akimbo  with  a  tavern  wench's  grace. 
And  set  the  splendid  compass  of  your  voice 
To  lyric  jigs.     Go  to!  I  thought  you  meant 
To  be  an  artist — lift  your  audience 
To  see  your  vision,  not  trick  forth  a  show 
To  please  the  grossest  taste  of  grossest  numbers. 

Arm.  (taking  up  Leo's  hand,  and  kissing  it). 

.     .     .     O  I  trilled 
At  nature's  prompting,  like  the  nightingales. 
Go  scold  them,  dearest  Leo. 

Leo.  I  stop  my  ears. 

Nature  in  Gluck  inspiring  Orpheus, 
Has  done  with  nightingales.     Are  bird-beaks  lips? 

Graf.     Truce   to   rebukes !     Tell   us — who   were   not 
there — 
The  double  drama :  how  the  expectant  house 
Took  the  first  notes. 


ARMGART  521 

Walpurca   (titniiiii^  fro))i  her  occu[>ation  of  decking 
the  room  with  the  flowers). 

Yes,  tell  us  al',  dear  Armgart. 
Did  you  feci  tremors?     Leo,  how  did  she  look? 
Was  there  a  cheer  to  greet  her  ? 

Leo.  Not  a  sound. 

She  walked  like  Orpheus  in  his  solitude, 
And  seemed  to  see  naught  but  what  no  man  saw. 
Well !     The  first  notes  came  clearly  firmly  forth. 
And  I  was  easy,  for  behind  those  rills 
I  knew  there  was  a  fountain.     I  could  see 
The  house  was  breathing  gently,  heads  were  still; 
Parrot  opinion  was  struck  meekly  mute, 
And  human  hearts  were  swelling.     Armgart  stood 
As  if  she  had  been  new-created  there 
And  found  her  voice  which  found  a  melody. 
Orpheus  was  Armgart,  Armgart  Orpheus. 

.     .     .     The  final  note 
Had  happy  drowning  in  the  unloosed  roar 
That  surged  and  ebbed  and  ever  surged  again, 
Till  expectation  kept  it  pent  awhile 
Ere  Orpheus  returned.     Pfui !     He  was  changed: 
My  demi-god  was  pale,  had  downcast  eyes 
That  quivered  like  a  bride's  who  fain  would  send 
Backward  the  rising  tear. 

Arm.  (advancing,  hut  then  turnini:;  azvay,  as  if  to  check 
her  speech). 

I  teas  a  bride, 
As  nuns  are  at  their  spousals. 

Wal.  1  hope  the  house 

Kcjit  a  reserve  of  plaudits:  T  am  jealous 
Lest  they  had  (hilled  tlicmselves  for  coming  good 
That  should  have  seemed  the  better  and  the  best. 

Lko.     Xo.  'twas  a  revel  where  they  had  but  quaffed 
Their  opening  cup.     I  think  the  artist's  star, 


522  DRAMATIC 

His  audience  keeps  not  sober :  once  afire, 

They  flame  toward  climax,  though  his  merit  hold 

But  fairly  even. 

Arm.  (her  hand  on  Leo's  arm). 

Now,  now,  confess  the  truth: 
I  sang  still  better  to  the  very  end — 
All  save  the  trill ;  I  give  that  up  to  you. 
To  bite  and  growl  at.     Why,  you  said  yourself, 
Each  time  I  sang,  it  seemed  new  doors  were  oped 
That  you  might  hear  heaven  clearer. 

Leo  (shaking  his  finger).  I  was  raving. 

Arm.     I  am  not  glad  with  that  mean  vanity 
Which  knows  no  good  beyond  its  appetite 
Full  feasting  upon  praise !     I  am  only  glad. 
Being  praised  for  what  I  know  is  worth  the  praise; 
Glad  of  the  proof  that  I  myself  have  part 
In  what  I  worship !     At  the  last  applause 
Think  you  I  felt  myself  a  prima  donna? 
No,  but  a  happy  spiritual  star 
Such  as  old  Dante  saw,  wrought  in  a  rose 
Of  light  in  Paradise,  whose  only  self 
Was  consciousness  of  glory  wide-diffused, 
Music,  life,  power — I  moving  in  the  midst 
With  a  sublime  necessity  of  good. 

Leo  (li'ith  a  shrug).     I  thought  it  was  a  prima  donna 
came 
Within  the  side-scenes ;  ay,  and  she  was  proud 
To  find  the  bouquet  from  the  royal  box 
Enclosed  a  jewel-case,  and  proud  to  wear 
A  star  of  brilliants,  quite  an  earthly  star, 
Valued  by  thalers.     Come,  my  lady,  own 
Ambition  has  five  senses,  and  a  self 
That  gives  it  good  warm  lodging  when  it  sinks 
Plump  down  from  ecstasy. 


ARMGAKT  $2; 

Arm.  Own  it?  why  not? 

Am  1  a  sage  whose  words  must  fall  like  seed 
Silently  buried  toward  a  far-off  spring? 
I  sing  to  living  men  and  my  effect 
Is  like  the  summer's  sun.  that  ripens  corn 
Or  now  or  never.     If  the  world  brings  me  gifts, 
Gold,  incense,  myrrh — 'twill  be  the  needful  sign 
That  I  have  stirred  it  as  the  high  year  stirs 
Before  I  sink  to  winter. 

Graf.  Ecstasies 

Are  short — most  happily !     We  should  but  lose 
Were  Armgart  borne  too  commonly  and  long 
Out  of  the  self  that  charms  us.     Could  I  choose 
She  were  less  ai)t  to  soar  beyond  the  reach 
Of  woman's  foibles,  innocent  vanities, 
Fondness  for  trifles  like  that  pretty  star 
Twinkling  beside  her  cloud  of  ebon  hair. 

Arm.  (taking  out  the  gem  and  looking  at  it). 
This  little  star !     I  would  it  were  the  seed 
Of  a  whole  Milky  Way,  if  such  bright  shimmer 
Were  the  sole  speech  men  told  their  rapture  with 
At  Armgart's  music.     Shall  I  turn  aside 
From  splendors  which  flash  out  the  glow  I  make. 
And  live  to  make,  in  all  the  chosen  breasts 
Of  half  a  Continent?     No,  may  it  come. 
That  si)lendor !     May  the  day  be  near  when  men 
Think  much  to  let  my  horses  draw  me  home, 
And  new  lands  welcome  me  upon  their  beach, 
Loving  me  for  my  fame.     That  is  the  truth 
Of  what  I  wish,  nay,  yearn  for.     Shall  I  lie? 
Pretend  to  seek  obscurity — to  sing 
In  hope  of  disregard?     A  vile  pretence! 
And  blasphemy  besides.     For  what  is  fame 
But  the  benignant  strength  of  One,  transformed 


524  DRAMATIC 

To  joy  of  Many?     Tributes,  plaudits  come 
As  necessary  breathing  of  such  joy ; 
And  may  they  come  to  me ! 

Graf.  The  auguries 

Point  clearly  that  way.     Is  it  no  offence 
To  wish  the  eagle's  wing  may  find  repose, 
As  feebler  wings  do,  in  a  quiet  nest? 
Or  has  the  taste  of  fame  already  turned 
The  Woman  to  a  Muse — 

Leo  (going  to  the  table).     Who  needs  no  supper? 
I  am  her  priest,  ready  to  eat  her  share 
Of  good  Walpurga's  offerings. 

Wal.  Armgart,  come. 

Graf,  will  you  come? 

Graf.  Thanks,  I  play  truant  here, 

And  must  retrieve  my  self-indulged  delay. 
But  will  the  Muse  receive  a  votary 
At  any  hour  to-morrow? 

Arm.  Any  hour 

After  rehearsal,  after  twelve  at  noon. 

SCENE  II. — The  same  Salon,  morning.  Armgart 
seated  in  her  bonnet  and  walking  dress.  The  Graf 
standing  near  her  against  the  piano. 

Graf.     Armgart,  to  many  minds  the  first  success 
Is  reason  for  desisting.     I  have  known 
A  man  so  versatile,  he  tried  all  arts, 
But  when  in  each  by  turns  he  had  achieved 
Just  so  much  mastery  as  made  men  say, 
"  He  could  be  king  here  if  he  would,"  he  threw 
The  lauded  skill  aside.     He  hates,  said  one, 
The  level  of  achieved  pre-eminence. 
He  must  be  conquering  still ;  but  others  said 


ARMCART  525 

Arm.     The  truth,  I  liopc :  he  had  a  meagre  soul, 
Holding  no  depth  where  love  could  root  itself. 
"  Could  if  he  would?  "     True  greatness  ever  wills — 
It  lives  in  wholeness  if  it  live  at  all, 
And  all  its  strength  is  knit  with  constancy. 

Graf.     He  used  to  say  himself  he  was  too  sane 
To  give  his  life  away  for  excellence 
Which  yet  must  stand,  an  ivory  statuette 
Wrought  to  perfection  through  long  lonely  years. 
Huddled  in  the  mart  of  mediocrities. 
He  said,  the  very  finest  doing  wins 
The  admiring  only ;  but  to  leave  undone, 
Promise  and  not  fulfil,  like  ])uric(l  youth. 
Wins  all  the  envious,  makes  them  sigh  your  name 
As  that  fair  Absent,  blameless  Possible, 
Which  could  alone  impassion  them ;  and  thus, 
Serene  negation  has  free  gift  of  all, 
Panting  achievement  struggles,  is  denied, 
Or  wins  to  lose  again.     What  say  you,  Armgart? 
Truth  has  rough  flavors  if  we  bite  it  through ; 
I  think  this  sarcasm  came  from  out  its  core 
Of  bitter  irony. 

Arm.  It  is  the  truth 

Mean  souls  select  to  feed  upon.     What  then? 
Their  meanness  is  a  truth  which  I  will  spurn. 
The  praise  I  seek  lives  not  in  envious  breath 
Using  my  name  to  blight  another's  deed. 
I  sing  for  love  of  song  and  that  renown 
Which  is  the  spreading  act,  the  world-wide  share. 
Of  good  that  I  was  born  with.     Had  I  failed — 
Well,  that  had  been  a  truth  most  pitiable. 
I  cannot  bear  to  think  what  life  would  be 
With  high  hope  shrunk  to  endurance,  stunted  aims 
Like  broken  lances  ground  to  eating-knives, 


525  DRAMATIC 

A  self  sunk  down  to  look  with  level  eyes 

At  low  achievement,  doomed  from  day  to  day 

To  distaste  of  its  consciousness.     But  I 

Graf.     Have  won,  not  lost,  in  your  decisive  throw. 
And  I  too  glory  in  this  issue ;  yet 
The  public  verdict  has  no  potency 
To  sway  my  judgment  of  what  Armgart  is: 
My  pure  delight  in  her  would  be  but  sullied, 
If  it  o'erflowed  with  mixture  of  men's  praise. 
And  had  she  failed,  I  should  have  said,  "  The  pearl 
Remains  a  pearl  for  me,  reflects  the  light 
With  the  same  fitness  that  first  charmed  my  gaze — 
Is  worth  as  fine  a  setting  now  as  then." 

Arm.  (rising).     Oh,  you  are  good!     But  why  will  you 
rehearse 
The  talk  of  cynics,  who  with  insect  eyes 
Explore  the  secrets  of  the  rubbish-heap? 
I  hate  your  epigrams  and  pointed  saws 
Whose  narrow  truth  is  but  broad  falsity. 
Confess  your  friend  was  shallow. 

Graf.  I  confess 

Life  is  not  rounded  in  an  epigram, 
And  saying  aught,  we  leave  a  world  unsaid. 
I  quoted,  merely  to  shape  forth  my  thought 
That  high  success  has  terrors  when  achieved — 
Like  preternatural  spouses  whose  dire  love 
Hangs  perilous  on  slight  observances: 
Whence  it  were  possible  that  Armgart  crowned 
Might  turn  and  listen  to  a  pleading  voice, 
Though  Armgart  striving  in  the  race  was  deat. 
You  said  you  dared  not  think  what  life  had  been 
Without  the  stamp  of  eminence ;     .     .     . 
Paint  the  future  out 
As  an  unchecked  and  glorious  career, 


ARMGART  527 

'Twill  g^row  more  strenuous  by  the  very  love 
You  bear  to  excellence,  the  very  fate 
Of  human  powers,  with  tread  at  every  step 
On  possible  verges. 

Arm.  I  accept  the  jicril. 

I  choose  to  walk  high  with  sublinier  dread 
Rather  than  crawl  in  safety.     And,  besides, 
I  am  an  artist  as  you  are  a  noble: 
I  ought  to  bear  the  burthen  of  my  rank. 

Graf.     Such  parallels,  dear  Armgart,  are  but  snares 
To  catch  the  mind  with  seeming  argument — 
Men  rise  the  higher  as  their  task  is  high, 
The  task  being  well  achieved.     A  woman's  rank 
Lies  in  the  fulness  of  her  womanhood : 
Therein  alone  she  is  royal. 

Arm.  Yes,  I  know 

The  oft-taught  Gospel :  "  Woman,  thy  desire 
Shall  be  that  all  superlatives  on  earth 
Belong  to  men,  save  the  one  highest  kind — 
To  be  a  mother.     Thou  shall  not  desire 
To  do  aught  best  save  pure  subservience : 
Nature  has  willed  it  so !  "     O  blessed  Nature! 
Let  her  be  arbitress ;  she  gave  me  voice 
Such  as  she  only  gives  a  woman  child, 
Best  of  its  kind,  gave  me  ambition  too, 
That  sense  transcendent  which  can  taste  the  joy 
Of  swaying  multitudes,  of  being  adored 
For  such  achievement,  needed  excellence, 
As  man's  best  art  must  wait  for,  or  be  dumb. 
Men  did  not  say,  when  I  had  sung  last  night, 
"  'Twas  g^od,  nay,  wonderful,  considering 
She  is  a  woman  " — and  then  turn  to  add, 
"  Tenor  or  baritone  had  sung  her  songs 
Better,  of  course :  she's  but  a  woman  spoiled.'* 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Graf,  you  said  it. 


528  DRAMATIC 

Graf.  No! 

How  should  I  say  it,  Armgart  ?     I  who  own 
The  magic  of  your  nature-given  art 
As  sweetest  effluence  of  your  womanhood 
Which,  being  to  my  choice  the  best,  must  find 
The  best  of  utterance.     But  this  I  say : 
Your  fervid  youth  beguiles  you ;  you  mistake 
A  strain  of  lyric  passion  for  a  life 
Which  in  the  spending  is  a  chronicle 
With  ugly  pages.     Trust  me,  Armgart,  trust  me ; 
.     .     .     Pain  had  been  saved, 
Nay,  purer  glory  reached,  had  you  been  throned 
As  woman  only,  holding  all  your  art 
As  attribute  to  that  dear  sovereignty- - 
Concentering  your  power  in  home  delights 
Which  penetrate  and  purify  the  world. 

Arm.     What!   leave  the  opera  with  my  part  ill-sung 
While  I  was  warbling  in  a  drawing-room? 
Sing  in  the  chimney-corner  to  inspire 
My  husband  reading  news  ?     Let  the  world  hear 
My  music  only  in  his  morning  speech? 
No !  tell  me  that  my  song  is  poor,  my  art 
The  piteous  feat  of  weakness  aping  strength — 
That  were  fit  proem  to  your  argument. 
Till  then,  I  am  an  artist  by  my  birth — 
By  the  same  warrant  that  I  am  a  woman : 
Nay,  in  the  added  rarer  gift  I  see 
Supreme  vocation  :   if  a  conflict  comes, 
Perish — no,  not  the  woman,  but  the  joys 
Which  men  make  narrow  hx  their  narrowness. 
Oh,  I  am  happy !     The  great  masters  write 
For  women's  voices,  and  great  Music  wants  me! 

Graf.     .     .     .     Armgart,  I  came  not  to  seek 
Any  renunciation  save  the  wife's, 


arm(;art  529 

W'liich  turns  away  from  other  possible  love 
Future  and  worthier,  to  take  his  love 
Who  asks  the  name  of  husband.     He  who  soug^ht 
Armgart  obscure,  and  heard  her  answer,  "  Wait  " — 
May  come  witliout  suspicion  now  to  seek 
Armgart  applauded. 

Arm.  Graf,  you  arc  a  noble, 

And  have  a  high  career ;  just  now  you  said 
*Twas  higher  far  than  aught  a  woman  seeks 
Beyond  mere  womanhood.     Yet  claim  to  be 
More  than  a  husband  but  could  not  rejoice 
That  I  were  more  than  wife.     What  follows,  then? 
You  choosing  me  with  such  persistency 
As  is  but  stretched-out  rashness,  soon  must  find 
Our  marriage  asks  concessions,  asks  resolve 
To  share  renunciation  or  demand  it. 
Either  we  both  renounce  a  mutual  ease. 
As  in  a  nation's  need  both  man  and  wife 
Do  public  services,  or  one  of  us 
Must  yield  that  something  else  for  which  ^ach.  ilvey 
Besides  the  other.     ^len  are  reasoners : 
That  premiss  of  superior  claims  perforce 
Urges  conclusion — "  Armgart,  it  is  you." 

Graf.     But  if  I  say  I  have  considered  this, 
Returned  to  say,  "  Y^ou  shall  be  free  as  now 
Only  accept  the  refuge,  shelter,  guard. 
My  love  will  give  you  freedom  " — then  your  words 
Are  hard  accusal. 

Arm.  Well,  T  accuse  myself. 

My  love  would  be  accomplice  of  your  will. 

Graf,     Again — my  will? 

Arm.  Oh,  your  unspoken  will. 

Your  silent  tolerance  would  torture  me, 
And  on  that  rack  1  should  deny  the  good 
I  vet  believed  in. 


530  DRAMATIC 

Graf.  Then  I  am  the  man 

Whom  you  would  love? 

Arm.  Whom  I  refuse  to  love! 

No ;  I  will  live  alone  and  pour  my  pain 
With  passion  into  music,  where  it  turns 
To  what  is  best  within  my  better  self. 
I  will  not  take  for  a  husband  one  who  deems 
The  thing  my  soul  acknowledges  as  good — 
The  thing  I  hold  worth  striving,  suffering  for, 
To  be  a  thing  dispensed  with  easily, 
Or  else  the  idol  of  a  mind  infirm. 

Graf.     Armgart,  you  are  ungenerous ;  you  strain 
My  thought  beyond  its  mark.     Our  difference 
Lies  not  so  deep  as  love. 

Arm.  It  lies  deep  enough 

To  chafe  the  union.     .     ,     . 

.     .     .     Graf,  it  is  your  sorrow 
That  you  love  Armgart.     Nay,  it  is  her  sorrow 
That  she  may  not  love  you. 

Graf.  Woman,  it  seems, 

Has  enviable  power  to  love  or  not 
According  to  her  will 

Arm.  She  has  the  will — 

I  have — who  am  one  woman — not  to  take 
Disloyal  pledges  that  divide  her  will — 
The  man  who  marries  me  must  wed  my  Art — 
Honor  and  cherish  it,  not  tolerate. 

Graf.     The  man  is  yet  to  come  whose  theory 
Will  weigh  as  naught  with  you  against  his  love. 

Arm.     Whose  theory  will  plead  beside  his  love. 

Graf.     Himself  a  singer,  then?  who  knows  no  life 
Out  of  the  opera  books,  where  tenor  parts 
Are  found  to  suit  him  ? 

Arm.  You  are  bitter,  Graf. 

Forgive  me ;  seek  the  woman  you  deserve. 


akmgart  531 

All  grace,  all  goodness,  who  has  not  yet  found 
A  meanine:  in  her  life,  nor  any  end 
Beyond  fulfilling  yours.     The  type  abounds. 

Graf.     And  happily,  for  the  world. 

Arm.  Yes,  happily. 

Let  it  excuse  me  that  my  kind  is  rare : 
Commonness  is  its  own  security. 

Graf.     Armgart,  1  would  with  all  mv  soul  I  knew 
The  man  so  rare  that  he  could  make  your  life 
As  woman  sweet  to  you,  as  artist  safe. 

Arm.     Oh,  I  can  live  unmated,  but  not  live 
Without  the  bliss  of  singing  to  the  world, 
And  feeling  all  my  world  respond  to  me. 

Graf.     May  it  be  lasting.     Then,  we  two  must  part? 

Arm.     I  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  all.     Farewell ! 

SCENE  III. — A  Year  Later. — The  same  Salon.  Wal- 
PURGA  is  standing  looking  toivard  the  icindozv  xvith 
an  air  of  uneasiness. 

Doctor  Grahn.     \\'here  is  my  patient,  Fraulein? 

Wal.  Fled  !   escaped ! 

Gone  to  rehearsal.     Is  it  dangerous? 

Doctor.     No,  no ;  her  throat  is  cured.     I  only  came 
To  hear  her  try  her  voice.     Had  she  yet  sung? 

Wal.     No  ;  she  had  meant  to  wait  for  you.     She  said, 
"  The  Doctor  has  a  right  to  my  first  song." 
Her  gratitude  was  full  of  little  plans. 
But  all  were  swept  away  like  gathered  flowers 
By  sudden  storm.     She  saw  this  opera  l)ill — 
It  was  a  wasp  to  sting  her :  she  turned  pale. 
Snatched  up  her  hat  and  mufflers,  said  in  haste. 
"  I  go  to  Leo — to  rehearsal — none 
Shall  sing  l^'idelio  to-night  but  me!" 
Then  rushed  down  stairs. 


532  DRAMATIC 

Doctor  (looking  at  his  zvatch).     And  this,  not  long 
ago? 

Wal.  Barely  an  hour. 

Doctor.     I  will  come  again.     She  can  take  no  harm. 
'Twas  time  for  her  to  sing :  her  throat  is  well. 
It  was  a  fierce  attack,  and  dangerous ; 
I  had  to  use  strong  remedies,  but — well ! 
At  one,  dear  Fraulein,  we  shall  meet  again. 

SCENE  IV. — Two  Hours  Later. — Walpurga  starts 
lip,  looking  tozcard  the  door.  Armgart  enters,  fol- 
lowed by  Leo.  She  throzvs  herself  on  a  chair  which 
stands  zvith  its  back  tozcard  the  door,  spcccliless,  not 
seeming  to  see  anything.  Walpurga  casts  a  ques- 
tioning, terrified  look  at  Leo.  He  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders, and  lifts  up  his  hands  behind  Armgart,  zvho 
sits  like  a  helpless  image,  li'hile  Walpurga  takes  off 
her  hat  and  niantle. 

Wal.     Armgart,  dear  Armgart  (kneeling  and  taking 
her  hands),  only  speak  to  me. 
Your  poor  Walpurga.     Oh,  your  hands  are  cold. 
Clasp  mine,  and  warm  them !     I  will  kiss  them  warm. 
'  ("Armgart  looks  at   her  an  instant,   then   draivs 
aivay  her  hands,  and,  turning  aside,  buries  her 
face  against  the  back  of  the  cJiair,  Walpurga 
rising  and  sfa}iding  near.) 

Doctor  Grahn  enters. 

Doctor.     News  !  stirring  news  to-day !  wonders  come 

thick. 
Arm.  (starting  up  at  the  first  sound  of  his  voice,  and 
speaking  vehemently). 
Yes,  thick,  thick,  thick!  and  you  have  murdered  it! 


ARMGART  533 

Murdered  my  voice — poisoned  the  soul  in  me. 
And  kept  me  living^. 

You  never  told  me  that  your  cruel  cures 
Were  clogging  films — 

.     .     .     Oh,  your  cures 
Are  devil's  triumphs:  you  can  rob,  maim,  slay, 
And  keep  a  hell  on  the  other  side  your  cure 
Where  you  can  see  your  victim  quivering 
Between  the  teeth  of  torture. 

(Turns  and  sinks  back  on  her  chair.) 

O  misery,  misery  \ 
You  might  have  killed  me,  might  have  let  me  sleep 
After  my  happy  day  and  wake — not  here ! 
In  some  new  unremembered  world, — not  here, 
Where  all  is  faded,  fiat — a  feast  broke  oflf — 
Banners  all  meaningless — exulting  words 
Dull,  dull — a  drum  that  lingers  in  the  air 
Beating  to  melody  which  no  man  hears. 

Doctor  (after  a  moment's  silence).     A  sudden  check 
has  shaken  you,  poor  child  ! 

.     .     .     Tell  me,  Leo: 
'Tis  not  such  utter  loss. 

^Leo,  icith  a  shrug,  goes  quietly  out.) 
Arm.  Oh,  you  stand 

And  look  compassionate  now,  but  wdien  Death  came 
With  mercy  in  his  hands,  you  hindered  him. 
I  did  not  choose  to  live  antl  have  your  pity. 
You  never  told  me,  never  gave  me  choice. 
To  die  a  singer,  lightning-struck,  unmaimed. 
Or  live  what  you  would  make  me  with  your  cures— 

.     .     as  meaningless 
As  letters  fallen  asunder  that  once  made 
A  hymn  of  rapture.     Oh,  I  had  meaning  once, 
Like  day  and  sweetest  air.     What  am  I  now? 


534  DRAMATIC 

The  millionth  woman  in  superfluous  herds. 
Leave  me  alone ! 

Doctor.  Well,  I  will  come  again. 

Arm.     Oh,  there  is  one  physician,  only  one, 
Who  cures  and  never  spoils.     Him  I  shall  send  for; 
He  comes  readily. 

Doctor  {to  Walpurga).     One  word,  dear  Fraulein. 

SCENE  V. — Armgart,  Walpurga. 

Arm.     Walpurga,  have  you  walked  this  morning? 

Wal.  No. 

Arm.     Go,  then,  and  walk ;  I  wish  to  be  alone. 

Wal.     I  will  not  leave  you. 

Arm.  Will  not,  at  my  wish? 

Wal.     Will  not,  because  you  wish  it.     Say  no  more, 
But  take  this  draught. 

Arm.  The  Doctor  gave  it  you? 

It  is  an  anodyne.     Put  it  away. 
He  cured  me  of  my  voice,  and  now  he  wants 
To  cure  me  of  my  vision  and  resolve — 
Drug  me  to  sleep  that  I  may  wake  again 
Without  a  purpose,  abject  as  the  rest 
To  bear  the  yoke  of  life.     He  shall  not  cheat  me 
Of  that  fresh  strength  which  anguish  gives  the  soul, 
The  inspiration  of  revolt,  ere  rage 
Slackens  to  faltering.     Now  I  see  the  truth. 

Wal.  (setting  dozvn  the  glass).     Then  you  must  see  a 
future  in  your  reach. 
With  happiness  enough  to  make  a  dower 
For  two  of  modest  claims. 

Arm.  Oh,  you  intone 

That  chant  of  consolation  wherewith  ease 
Makes  itself  easier  in  the  sight  of  pain. 


ARMGART  535 

Wal.     No  ;  I  would  not  console  you,  but  rebuke. 
I  say  then,  you  are  simply  fevered,  mad. 
You  cry  aloud  at  horrors  that  would  vanish 
If  you  would  change  the  light,  throw  into  shade 
The  loss  you  aggrandize,  and  let  day  fall 
On  good  remaining,  nay  on  good  refused 
Which  may  be  gain  now.     Did  you  not  reject 
A  woman's  lot  more  brilliant,  as  some  held, 
Than  any  singer's?     It  may  still  be  yours. 
Graf  Dornberg  loved  you  well. 

Arm.  Not  me,  not  me. 

He  loved  one  well  who  was  like  me  in  all 
Save  in  a  voice  which  made  that  All  unlike 
As  diamond  is  to  charcoal.     Oh,  a  man's  love  I 
Think  you  he  loves  a  woman's  inner  self 
Aching  with  loss  of  loveliness  ? — as  mothers 
Cleave  to  the  palpitating  pain  that  dwells 
Within  their  misformed  offspring? 

Wal.                                                            But  the  Graf 
Chose  you  as  simple  Armgart — had  preferred 
That  you  should  never  seek  for  any  fame 
But  such  as  matrons  have  who  rear  great  sons. 
And  therefore  you  rejected  him;  but  now 

Arm.     Ay,  now — now  he  would  see  me  as  I  am,. 
(She  fakes  itf>  a  haiul-iiiirror.) 
Russet  and  songless  as  a  missel-thrush. 
An  ordinary  girl — a  plain  brown  girl. 

Wal.  For  shame! 

Armgart,  you  slander  him.     What  would  you  say 
If  now  he  came  to  you  and  asked  again 
That  you  would  be  his  wife? 

Arm.  No,  and  thrice  no! 

It  would  be  pitying  constancy,  not  love, 
That  brought  him  to  me  now.     I  will  not  be 


536  DRAMATIC 

A  pensioner  in  marriage.     Sacraments 
Are  not  to  feed  the  paupers  of  the  world. 
If  he  were  generous — I  am  generous  too. 

Wal.     Proud,  Armgart,  but  not  generous. 

Arm.  Say  no  more. 

He  will  not  know  until 

Wal.  He  knows  already. 

Arm.  (quickly).     Is  he  come  back? 

Wal.  Yes,  and  will  soon  be  here= 

The  Doctor  had  twice  seen  him  and  would  go 
From  hence  again  to  see  him.     .     .     . 

.     .     What  if  he  were  outside? 
I  hear  a  footstep  in  the  ante-room. 

Arm.  (raising  herself  and  assuming  calmness). 
Why  let  him  come,  of  course.     I  shall  behave 
Like  what  I  am,  a  common  personage 
W^ho  looks  for  nothing  but  civility. 
I  shall  not  play  the  fallen  heroine, 
Assume  a  tragic  part  and  throw  out  cues 
For  a  beseeching  lover. 

Wal.  Some  one  raps. 

(Goes  to  the  door.) 

A  letter — from  the  Graf. 

Arm.  Then  open  it. 

(Walpurga  still  offers  it.) 

Nay,  my  head  swims.     Read  it.     I  cannot  see. 
(Walpurga  opens  it,  reads  and  pauses.) 

Read  it.     Have  done !     No  matter  what  it  is. 

(Walpurga  reads,  in  a  lozv.  hesitating  voice.) 

"  I  am  deeply  moved — my  heart  is  rent,  to  hear  of  your 
illness  and  its  cruel  result,  just  now  communicated  to  me 
by  Dr.  Grahn.  But  surely  it  is  possible  that  this  result 
may  not  be  permanent.  For  youth  such  as  yours.  Time 
may  hold  in  store  something  more  than  resignation :  who 


arm(;art  537 

shall  say  that  it  docs  not  hold  renewal  ?  I  have  not  dared 
to  ask  admission  to  you  in  the  hours  of  a  recent  shock, 
but  I  cannot  tlei)art  on  a  long  mission  without  tendering 
my  sympathy  and  my  farewell.  I  start  this  evening  for 
the  Caucasus,  and  thence  I  proceed  to  India,  where  I  am 
intrusted  by  the  Government  with  business  which  may 
be  of  long  duration." 

{  Walpukca  sits  dozvn  dejectedly.) 

Arm.  (after  a  slight  shudder,  bitterly). 
The  Graf  has  much  discretion.     I  am  glad. 
He  spares  us  both  a  pain,  not  seeing  me. 
What  I  like  least  is  that  consoling  hope — 
That  empty  cup,  so  neatly  ciphered  "  Time," 
Handed  me  as  a  cordial  for  despair. 
(Slo7cly  and  dreamily.)    Time — what  a  word  to  fling  as 

charity ! 
Bland  neutral  word  for  slow,  dull-beating  pain — 
Days,  months,  and  years! — If  I  woukl  wait  for  them. 

(She  takes  up  her  hat  and  puts  it  on,  then  zvraps 
her  mantle  round  her.      Walpurga  leaves  the 
room.) 
Why,    this    is   but   beginning.     (Walpurg.\    re-enters.) 

Kiss  me,  dear. 
I  am  going  now — alone — out — for  a  walk. 

Arm.     Bear  witness,  I  am  calm.     I  read  my  lot: 
"  Genteel  ?  "     "  O  yes,  gives  lessons  ;  not  so  good 
As  any  man's  would  be,  but  cheaper  far." 
"  Pretty  ?  "     "  Xo :  yet  she  makes  a  figure  fit 
For  good  society.     Poor  thing,  she  sews 
Both  late  and  early,  turns  and  alters  all 
To  suit  the  clianging  mode.     Some  widower 
Might  do  well,  marrying  her;  but  in  these  days! 
Well,  she  can  somewhat  eke  her  narrow  gains 
By  writing,  just  to  furnish  her  with  gloves 


538  DRAMATIC 

And  droschkies  in  the  rain.     They  print  her  things 
Often  for  charity." — Oh,  a  dog's  hfe ! 
A  harnessed  dog's,  that  draws  a  Httle  cart 
Voted  a  nuisance !     I  am  going  now. 

Wal.     Not  now,  the  door  is  locked. 

Arm.  Give  me  the  key ! 

Wal.     Locked  on  the  outside.     Gretchen  has  the  key : 
She  is  gone  on  errands. 

Arm.  What,  do  you  dare  to  keep  me 

Your  prisoner? 

Wal,  And  have  I  not  been  yours? 

Your  wish  has  been  a  bolt  to  keep  me  in. 
Perhaps  that  middling  woman  whom  you  paint 
With  far-off  scorn     .     .     . 

Arm.  I  paint  what  I  must  be. 

What  is  my  soul  to  me  without  the  voice 
That  gave  it  freedom  ?     Now  I  can  do  naught 
Better  than  what  a  million  women  do — 
Must  drudge  among  the  crowd  and  feel  my  life 
Beating  upon  the  world  without  response, 
If  I  ivoidd  do  it ! 

Wal.  (coldly).     And  why  should  you  not? 

Arm.   (turning  quickly).      Because  Heaven  made  me 
royal — wrought  me  out 
With  subtle  finish  toward  pre-eminence. 
All  the  world  now  is  but  a  rack  of  threads 
To  twist  and  dwarf  me  into  pettiness 
And  basely  feigned  content,  the  placid  mask 
Of  women's  misery. 

Wal.  (indignantly).     Ay,  such  a  mask 
As  the  few  born  like  you  to  easy  joy, 
Cradled  in  privilege,  take  for  natural 
On  all  the  lowly  faces  that  must  look 
Upward  to  you !     .     .     „ 


ARM CART  539 

.     .     .     You  wlio  every  day 
These  five  years  saw  me  limp  to  wait  on  you, 
And  tlioug^ht  the  order  perfect  which  jijave  nic, 
The  girl  without  pretension  to  be  aught, 
A  splendid  cousin  for  my  happiness; 
To  watch  the  night  through  when  her  brain  was  fired 
With  too  much  gladness — listen,  always  listen 
To  what  she  felt,  who  having  power  had  right 
To  feel  exorbitantly,  and  sul)mcrge 
The  souls  around  her  with  the  poured-out  flood 
Of  what  must  be  ere  she  were  satisfied ! 
That  was  feigned  patience,  was  it  ? 
Oh.  such  as  I  know  joy  by  negatives, 
And  all  their  deepest  passion  is  a  pang 
Till  they  accept  their  pauper's  heritage. 
And  meekly  live  from  out  the  general  store 
Of  joy  they  were  born  stripped  of.     I  accept — 
Nay.  now  would  sooner  choose  it  than  the  wealth 
Of  natures  you  call  royal,  who  can  live 
In  mere  mock  knowledge  of  their  fellows'  woe, 
Thinking  their  smiles  may  heal  it. 

Arm.    (tremulously).  Nay,  Walpurga, 

I  did  not  make  a  palace  of  my  joy 
To  shut  the  world's  truth  from  me. 

.     .     .     Yet  you  speak  truth ; 
I  wearied  you.  it  seems ;  took  all  your  help 
As  cushioned  nobles  use  a  weary  serf, 
Not  looking  at  his  face. 

Wal.  Oh,  I  but  stand 

As  a  small  symbol  for  the  mighty  sum 
Of  claims  impaid  to  needy  myriads; 
Where  is  the  rebel's  right  for  you  alone? 
Noble  rebellion  lifts  a  common  load : 
But  what  is  he  who  flings  his  own  load  oflf 


540  DRAMATIC 

And  leaves  his  fellows  toiling? 
Say  rather,  the  deserter's.     Oh,  you  smiled 
From  your  clear  height  on  all  the  million  lots 
Which  yet  you  brand  as  abject. 

Arm.  I  was  blind 

With  too  much  happiness :  true  vision  comes 
Only,  it  seems,  with  sorrow.     Were  there  one 
This  moment  near  me,  suffering  what  I  feel, 
And  needing  me  for  comfort  in  her  pang — 
Then  it  were  worth  the  while  to  live ;  not  else. 

Wal.     One — near  you — why,  they  throng !  you  hardly 
stir 
But  your  act  touches  them. 

Arm.  Who  has  need  of  me? 

Wal.     Love  finds  the  need  it  fills.     But  you  are  hard 

Arm.     Is  it  not  you,  Walpurga,  who  are  hard? 
You  humored  all  my  wishes  till  to-day, 
When  fate  has  blighted  me. 

Wal.  You  would  not  hear 

The  "  chant  of  consolation:  "  words  of  hope 
Only  embittered  you.     Then  hear  the  truth — 
A  lame  girl's  truth,  whom  no  one  ever  praised 
For  being  cheerful. 

A  word  of  truth  from  her  had  startled  you ; 
But  you — you  claimed  the  universe ;  naught  less 
Than  all  existence  working  in  sure  tracks 
Toward  your  supremacy.     The  wheels  might  scathe 
A  myriad  destinies — nay,  must  perforce ; 
But  yours  they  must  keep  clear  of;  just  for  you 
The  seething  atoms  through  the  firmament 
Must  bear  a  human  heart — which  you  had  not ! 
For  what  is  it  to  you  that  women,  men, 
Plod,  faint,  are  weary,  and  espouse  despair 
Of  aught  but  fellowship.    Save  that  you  spurn 


AR.MGART  54 1 

To  be  among  them?     Now,  then,  }ou  arc  lame — 
Maimed,  as  you  said,  and  levelled  with  the  crowd: 
Call  it  new  birth — birth  from  that  monstrous  Self 
Which,  smiling  down  u])on  a  race  oppressed, 
Says,  "  All  is  good,  for  I  am  throned  at  ease." 
Dear  Armgart — nay,  you  tremble — I  am  cruel. 

Arm.     O  no!  hark!     Some  one  knocks.     Come  in! — 
come  in  ! 

Enter  Lko. 

Leo.     See,  Gretchen  let  me  in.     I  could  not  rest 
Longer  away  from  you. 

Arm.  Sit  down,  dear  Leo. 

Walpurga,  I  would  speak  with  him  alone. 
(Wai.purg.v  jj^ocs  out.) 
Leo  (licsitati)igly).     You  mean  to  \valk? 
Arm.  No,  I  shall  stay  within. 

(She  takes  off  her  hat  and  mantle,  and  sits  dozen 
inunediately.     After  a  pause,  speaking  in  a  sub- 
dued tone  to  Leo.) 
How  old  are  you  ? 

Leo.     Threescore  and  five. 
Arm.  That's  old. 

I  never  thought  till  now  how  you  have  lived. 
They  hardly  ever  play  your  music  ? 

Leo  (raising  his  eyebrozes  and  throieing  out  his  Up). 

No! 
Schubert  too  wrote  for  silence:  half  his  work 
Lay  like  a  frozen  Rhine  till  summers  came 
That  warmed  the  grass  ab(n-c  him.     Even  so! 
His  music  lives  now  with  a  mighty  youth. 
Arm.     Do  you  think  yours  will  live  when  you  are  dead  ? 
Leo.     Pfui !     The  time  was,  I  drank  that  home-brewed 
wine 


j4?  DRAMATIC 

And  found  it  heady,  while  my  blood  was  young: 
Now  it  scarce  warms  me.     Tipple  it  as  I  may, 
I  am  sober  still,  and  say:  "  My  old  friend  Leo, 
Much  grain  is  wasted  in  the  world  and  rots ; 
Why  not  thy  handful?  " 

Arm.  Strange !  since  I  have  known  you 

Till  now  I  never  knew  how  you  lived. 
When  I  sang  well — that  was  your  jubilee. 
But  you  were  old  already. 

Leo.  Yes,  child,  yes  ; 

Youth  thinks  itself  the  goal  of  each  old  life ; 
Age  has  but  travelled  from  a  far-off  time 
Just  to  be  ready  for  youth's  service.     Well ! 
It  was  my  chief  delight  to  perfect  you. 

Arm.     Good  Leo!     You  have  lived  on  little  joys. 
But  your  delight  in  me  is  crushed  for  ever. 

Leo.     Nay,  nay,  I  have  a  thought :  keep  to  the  stage, 
To  drama  without  song ;  for  you  can  act — 
Who  knows  how  well,  when  all  the  soul  is  poured 
Into  that  sluice  alone? 

Arm.  I  know%  and  you  : 

The  second  or  third  best  in  tragedies 
That  cease  to  touch  the  fibre  of  the  time. 
No;  song  is  gone,  but  nature's  other  gift, 
Self-judgment,  is  not  gone.     Song  was  my  speech, 
And  with  its  impulse  only,  action  came : 

.     .     But  now — 
Oh,  I  should  stand  hemmed  in  with  thoughts  and  rules- 
Say  "  This  way  passion  acts,"  yet  never  feel 
The  might  of  passion.     .     .     . 
I  will  not  feed  on  doing  great  tasks  ill. 
Dull  the  world's  sense  wdth  mediocrity, 
And  live  by  trash  that  smothers  excellence. 
One  gift  I  had  that  ranked  me  with  the  best — 
The  secret  of  my  frame — and  tliat  is  gone. 


ARMGART  545 

For  all  life  now  I  am  a  broken  thing. 
Ijut  silence  there !     Good  Leo,  advise  me  now. 
I  would  take  humble  work  and  do  it  well — 
Teach  music,  singing — what  I  can — not  here. 
But  in  some  sinaller  town  where  I  may  bring 
The  method  you  have  taught  me,  i)ass  your  gift 
To  others  who  can  use  it  for  delight. 
You  think  I  can  do  that  ? 

(She  pauses  zcith  a  sob  in  her  voice.) 

Leo.  Yes,  yes,  dear  child ! 

And  it  were  well,  perhaps,  to  change  the  place — 
Begin  afresh  as  I  did  wlicn  I  left 
Vienna  with  a  heart  half  broken. 

Arm.  (roused  by  surprise).  You? 

Leo.     Well,  it  is  long  ago.     But  I  had  lost — 
No  matter !     We  must  bury  our  dead  joys 
And  live  above  tliem  with  a  living  world. 
But  whither,  think  you,  you  would  like  to  go? 

Arm.     To  Freiburg. 

Leo.  In  the  Breisgau?     And  why  there? 

It  is  too  small. 

Arm.  Walpurga  was  born  there, 

And  loves  the  place.     She  quitted  it  for  me 
These  five  years  past.     Now  I  will  take  her  there. 
Dear  Leo,  I  will  bury  my  dead  joy. 

Leo.     Mothers  do  so,  bereaved ;  then  learn  to  love 
Another's  living  child. 

Arm.  Oh.  it  is  hard 

To  take  the  little  corpse,  and  lay  it  low, 
And  say,  "  None  misses  it  but  me." 
She  sings     .     .     . 
I  mean  Paulina  sings  Fidelio, 
And  they  will  welcome  her  to-night. 

Leo.  Well,  well, 

'Tis  better  that  our  griefs  should  not  spread  far. 


RIP  VAN   WINKLE 
Part  I. 

The  following  scene  is  taken  from  the  first  act  of  the 
play  of    ■  Rip  Van  Winkle." 

The  characters  introduced  are : 

Rip  Van  Winkle. 

Derrick  Von  Beekman,  the  villain  of  the  play,  zvho 
endeavors  to  get  Rip  drunk,  in  order  to  have  him  sign 
azvay  his  property  to  Von  Beekman. 

Nick  Vedder,  the  7'illage  inn-keeper. 

SCENE. — The  Village  Inn. — Present,  Von   Beekman, 
alone. 

Enter  Rip^  shaking  off  the  Children,  who  cling  about 

him. 

Rip  (to  the  Children).  Say!  hullo,  dere,  du  Yacob 
Stein  !  du  kleine  spitzboob.  Let  dat  dog  Schneider  alone, 
will  you?  Dere,  I  tole  you  dat  all  de  time,  if  you  don'd 
let  him  alone  he's  goin'  to  bide  you !  Why,  hullo,  Der- 
rick!  how  you  was?  Ach,  my!  Did  you  hear  dem 
liddle  fellers  just  now?  Dey  most  plague  me  crazy. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  like  to  laugh  my  outsides  in  every  time  I 
tink  about  it.  Just  now,  as  we  was  comin'  along  toged- 
der,  Schneider  and  me — I  don'd  know  if  you  know 
Schneider  myself?  Well,  he's  my  dog.  Well,  dem 
liddle  fellers,  dey  took  Schneider,  und — ha,  ha,  ha ! — dey 
^la,  ba! — dey  tied  a  tin  kettle  mit  his  tail!     Ha,  ha.  ha! 


RIP   VAX    WINKLE  545 

My  gracious !  of  you  had  seen  dat  dog  run !  My,  how 
scared  he  was !  \'ell,  he  was  a-runnin'  an'  de  kettle  was 
n-bangin'  an' — ha,  ha,  ha!  you  bcHcve  it,  dat  dog.  he  run 
light  beticixt  mc  an'  >iiy  Ici^s!  Ha,  ha,  h'l!  He  s])ill  nie 
und  all  dem  liddle  fellers  down  in  de  mud  togedder.  Ha, 
ha,  ha ! 

Von  B.  Ah,  yes,  that's  all  right.  Rip,  very  funny,  very 
^unny ;  but  what  do  you  say  to  a  glass  of  liquor.  Rip? 

Rii'.  Well,  now,  Derrick,  what  do  I  generally  say  to 
a  glass?  I  generally  say  it's  a  good  ting,  don'd  I?  Und 
I  generally  say  a  good  deal  more  to  what  is  /;/  it,  dan  to 
de  glass. 

Von  B.  Certainly,  certainly!  Say,  hallo,  there! 
Nick  \^edder,  bring  out  a  bottle  of  your  best ! 

Rip.  Dat's  right — fill  'em  up.  You  wouldn't  believe 
it.  Derrick,  but  dat  is  de  first  one  I  have  had  to-day.  I 
guess  maybe  de  reason  is,  I  couldn't  got  it  before.  Ah, 
Derrick,  my  score  is  too  big !  Well,  here  is  your  good 
health  und  your  family's — may  they  all  live  long  und 
prosper.  (They  drivk.)  Ach !  you  may  well  smack 
your  lips,  und  go  ah.  ah !  over  dat  liquor.  You  don'd 
give  me  such  liquor  like  dat  every  day,  Nick  Vedder, 
Well,  come  on,  fill  'em  up  again.  Git  out  mit  dat  water, 
Nick  Vedder,  I  don'd  want  no  water  in  my  liquor.  Good 
liquor  und  water,  Derrick,  is  just  like  man  und  wife,  dey 
don'd  agree  zvcll  togedder — dat's  me  und  )ny  wife,  any 
way.  Well,  come  on  again.  Here  is  your  good  health 
und  your  family's,  und  may  dey  all  live  long  und  prosper ! 

Nick  Vedder.  That's  right.  Rip;  drink  away,  and 
"  drown  your  sorrows  in  the  flowing  bowl." 

Rip.  Drown  my  sorrows?  Ya,  dat's  all  very  well, 
but  s/ie  don'd  drozcn.  My  wife  is  my  sorrow  und  you 
can't  drown  her;  she  tried  it  once,  but  she  couldn't  do  it 
What,  didn't  you  hear  about  dat,  de  day  what  Gretchen 


54^  DRAMATIC 

she  like  to  got  drownded  ?  Ach,  my ;  dat's  de  funniest 
ting  in  de  world.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it.  It  was  de 
same  day  what  we  got  married.  I  bet  I  don'd  forgot  dat 
day  so  long  what  I  live.  You  know  dat  Hudson  River 
what  dey  git  dem  boats  over — well,  dat's  de  same  place. 
Well,  you  know  dat  boat  what  Gretchen  she  was  a-goin' 
to  come  over  in,  dat  got  upset  ted — ya,  just  went  righd 
by  der  boddom.  But  sJic  ivas)i't  in  de  boat.  Oh,  no;  if 
she  had  been  in  de  boat,  well,  den,  maybe  she  might  have 
got  drownded.  You  can't  tell  anyting  at  all  about  a  ting 
like  dat ! 

Von  B.  Ah,  no;  but  I'm  sure.  Rip,  if  Gretchen  were 
to  fall  into  the  water  now,  you  would  risk  your  life  to 
save  her. 

Rip.  Would  If  Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  about  dat 
myself.  When  we  was  first  got  married  ?  Oh,  ya ;  I 
know  I  would  have  done  it  den,  but  I  don'd  know  how  it 
would  be  now.  But  it  would  be  a  good  deal  more  my 
duty  now  as  it  was  den.  Don'd  you  know.  Derrick,  when 
a  man  gits  married  a  long  time — mit  his  wife,  he  gits  a 
good  deal  attached  mit  her,  und  it  would  be  a  good  deal 
more  my  duty  now  as  it  was  den.  But  I  don'd  know, 
Derrick.  I  am  afraid  if  Gretchen  should  fall  in  de  water 
now  und  should  say,  "  Rip,  Rip !  help  me  oud  " — I  should 
say,  "  Mrs.  Van  Winkle,  I  will  just  go  home  und  tink 
about  it."  Oh,  no,  Derrick ;  if  Gretchen  fall  in  de  water 
now  she's  got  to  swim,  I  told  you  dat — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! 
Hullo !  dat's  her  a-comin'  now ;  I  guess  it's  bedder  I  go 
oud!  [Exit  Rip. 


Part  II. 


Shortly  after  his  conversation.  Rip  returns  home  after 
nightfall  in  a  decidedly  muddled  condition,  he  puts  his 


Rir   VAN   WINKLE  547 

head  through  the  open  window  at  the  rear,  not  observing 
his  irate  wife,  who  stands  in  ambush  behind  the  clothes- 
bars  with  her  ever-ready  broomstick,  to  give  him  a  warm 
reception ;  but  seeing  only  his  little  daughter  Meenie,  of 
whom  he  is  very  fond,  and  who  also  loves  him  very  ten- 
derly, Rip  says: 

Meenie!     Meenie,  my  darlin'! 

Meenie,     Hush-sh-h. 

(Shaking  finger,  to  indicate  the  presence  of  her 
mother.) 

Rip.  Eh!  what's  de  matter?  I  don'd  see  noting,  my 
darHn'. 

Meenie.     'Sh-sh-sh! 

Rip.  Eh!  what?  Say,  Meenie,  is  de  ole  wild  cat 
home?  (Gretchen  catches  him  quickly  by  tJie  hair.) 
Oh,  oh!  say,  is  dat  you.  Gretchen?  Say,  dere,  my  dar- 
lin', my  angel,  don'd  do  dat.  Let  go  my  head,  won'd 
you  ?  Well,  den,  hold  on  to  it  so  long  what  you  like. 
(Gretchen  releases  him.)  Dere,  now,  look  at  dat,  see 
what  you  done — you  gone  pull  out  a  whole  handful  of 
hair.  What  you  want  to  do  a  ting  like  dat  for?  You 
must  want  a  bald-headed  husband,  don'd  you? 

Gretchen.     Who  was  that  you  called  a  wild  cat? 

Rip.  Who  was  dat  I  call  a  wild  cat?  Well,  now,  let 
me  see,  who  was  dat  I  call  a  wild  cat?  Dat  must  'a'  been 
de  same  time  I  come  in  de  winder  dere,  wasn't  it?  Yes, 
I  know,  it  was  de  same  time.  Well,  now,  let  me  see. 
(Suddenly.)     It  was  de  dog  Schneider  dat  I  call  it. 

Gretchen.  The  dog  Schneider?  That's  a  likely 
story. 

Rip.  Why,  of  course  it  is  a  likely  story — ain't  he  my 
dog?  Well,  den,  I  call  him  a  wild  cat  just  so  much  what 
I  like,  so  dere  now.  (Gretchen  begins  to  iveep.)  Oh, 
well ;  dere,  now,  don'd  you  cry,  don'd  you  cry,  Gretchen ; 


548  DRAMATIC 

you  hear  what  I  said?  Lisden  now.  If  you  don'd  cry, 
I  nefer  drink  anoder  drop  of  Hquor  in  my  Hfe. 

Gretchen  (crying).  Oh,  Rip!  you  have 'said  so  so 
many,  many  times,  and  you  never  kept  your  word  yet. 

Rip.     Well,  I  say  it  dis  time,  and  I  mean  it. 

Gretchen.     Oh,  Rip !   if  I  eould  only  trust  you. 

Rip.  You  mustn't  suspect  me.  Can't  you  see  re- 
pentance in  my  eye? 

Gretchen.  Rip,  if  you  will  only  keep  your  word,  I 
shall  be  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world. 

Rip.  You  can  believe  it.  I  nefer  drink  anoder  drop 
so  long  what  I  live,  if  you  don'd  cry. 

Gretchen.  Oh,  Rip,  how  happy  we  shall  be !  And 
you'll  get  back  all  the  village,  Rip,  just  as  you  used  to 
have  it ;  and  you'll  fix  up  our  little  house  so  nicely ;  and 
you  and  T,  and  our  darling  little  Meenie,  here — how 
happy  we  shall  be ! 

Rip.  Dere,  dere,  now  !  you  can  be  just  so  happy  what 
you  like.  Go  in  de  odder  room,  go  along  mit  you  ;  I  come 
in  dere  pooty  quick.  (Exit  Gretchen  and  Meenie.) 
My !  I  swore  off  fon  drinkin'  so  many,  many  times,  and 
I  never  kep'  my  word  yet.  (Taking  out  bottle.)  I  don'd 
believe  dere  is  more  as  one  good  drink  in  dat  bottle,  any- 
way. It's  a  pity  to  waste  it !  You  goin'  to  drink  dat  ? 
Well,  now,  if  you  do,  it  is  de  last  one,  /emember  dat,  old 
feller.     Well,  here  is  your  goot  held,  und — 

Enter  Gretchen,  suddenly,  zvho  snatches  the  bottle 
from  him. 

Gretchen.     Oh,  you  brute!   you  paltry  thief! 

Rip.     Hold  on  dere,  my  dear,  you  will  spill  de  liquor. 

Gretchen.  Yes,  I  will  spill  it,  you  drunken  scoun- 
drel !  (Throzving  azvay  the  bottle.)  That's  the  last 
drop  you  ever  drink  under  this  roof. 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE  549 

Rip  (sloivly,  after  a  tiwuiott's  siloicc,  as  if  stunned  by 
her  severity).     Eh!  what? 

Gretchen.     Out,  I  say!  you  drink  no  more  here. 

Rip.  What?  Gretchen,  are  you  goin'  to  drive  me 
away? 

Gretchen.  Yes!  Acre  by  acre,  foot  by  foot,  you 
have  sold  everything  that  ever  belonged  to  you  for  liquor. 
Thank  Heaven  this  house  is  mine,  and  you  can't  sell  it. 

Rip  (rapidly  sobering,  as  he  begins  to  realize  the 
gravity  of  the  situation).  Yours?  yours?  Ya,  you  are 
right — it  is  yours ;  I  have  got  no  home.  (In  broken 
tones,  almost  sobbing.)     But  where  will  I  go? 

Gretchen.  Anywhere!  out  into  the  storm,  to  the 
mountains.  There's  the  door — never  let  your  face  darken 
it  again. 

Rip.  What,  Gretchen !  are  you  goin'  to  drive  me  away 
like  a  dog  on  a  night  like  dis? 

Gretchen.  Yes;  out  with  you!  You  have  no  longer 
a  share  in  me  or  mine.  (Breaking  doivn  and  sobbing 
with  the  intensity  of  her  passion.) 

Rip  (very  slozvly  and  quietly,  but  n'ith  great  intensity). 
Well,  den,  I  will  go ;  you  have  drive  me  away  like  a  dog, 
Gretchen,  and  I  will  go.  But  remember,  Gretchen,  after 
what  you  have  told  me  here  to-night,  I  can  never  come 
back.  You  have  open  de  door  for  me  to  go;  you  will 
never  open  it  for  me  to  return.  But,  Gretchen,  you  toll 
me  dat  I  have  no  longer  a  share  here.  (Points  at  the 
child,  zvho  kneels  cryi)ig  at  his  feet.)  Good-by  (zcifh 
much  emotion),  my  darlin'.  God  bless  you!  Don'd  you 
ncfer  forgit  your  fader.  Gretchen  (zvith  a  great  sob),  I 
wipe  de  disgrace  from  your  door.     Good-by,  good-by ! 

[Exit  Rip  into  the  storm. 


SUGGESTIONS    FOR    CUTTING 


THERE   WERE    "NINETY   AND   NINE." 

Page  3.  Omit  line  2,  "  as  .  .  .  time."  Line  6,  "  or  .  .  .  matter" 
Line  13,  "fixedly  .  .  .  earnestness."  Line  20,  close  paragraph 
after  "  before." 

P.  4.     Omit  first  twelve  lines.     Line  15,  "and  .  .   .   gambler."     Line 

18,  "  or  .   .  .   won."     Line  24,  "and  .   .   .   interest." 

.  5.     Line   18,  "how,"  to  line  26,  "park."     Line  27,    "when  .   .  , 

village." 
.  6.      Line  3,    "the    secret  .  .    .   England."     Line  6,   omit  remainder 

of  page  after  "  recalled." 
.  7.     Omit   first    twenty-four    lines.       Line    25,    "Then."      Line    28, 

"  getting  .   .   .   ventured." 
.  8.      Line  9,  "days,"  to  line  20,  "them."     Line  30,  "and,"  to  end 

of  page. 
.  9.     Omit  to  line  8,  "  what."     Line  11,  "  He,"  to  end  of  paragraph. 

Line  32,  after  "everything"  insert  " And  it fuilc-ii .'" 
p.  10  and  II.     Omit. 
.    12.       Line   I,    "the  .   .   .   above."     Line    12,    "They,"  to    line    17, 

"pain."     Line  27,  "  He,"  to  line  29,  "end." 

14.  Line  28,  "There,"    to  end  of  page. 

15.  Line  i,  "cause,"  to  end  of  paragraph.  Line  8,  "hovered,"  to 
end  of  paragraph.      Line  30,   "  Then,"  to  end  of  page. 

16.  Omit  first  ten  lines.      Line  13,  "I,"  to  line   17,    "do."     Line 

19,  "He,"  to  line  24,  "him."     Line  28,  "  The, "  to  line  32,  "it." 

17.  Line  9,  "We,"  to  end  of  paragraph.  Line  13,  "  He,"  to  end 
of  paragraph.  Line  19,  "  I,"  to  end  of  paragraph.  Line  29, "  But," 
to  end  of  page. 

P.  18.     Omit  first  six  lines.      Line  28,  "  He,"  to  end  of  page. 

P.  19.      Line  9,   insert    "and"  after   "money."     Line    10,    "and,"  to 

end  of  paragraph.     Line  17,  "  He,"  to  end  of  paragraph.     Line  28, 

"  casting  .   .   .   wife." 
P.  20.     Omit  first  eleven  lines.      Line  17,  "  It,"  to  line  21,  "answer." 
P.  21.     Line  II,  to  end  of  page. 
P.  22.     Omit    first    two    lines.     Line  5,    "Ah  .   .    .  calmness."       Line 

7,  insert  "said  the  plunger"  after  "francs."     Line  26,  "Do,"  to 

line  29,  "  them." 

551 


552  SUGGESTIONS   FOR   CUTTING 


HIS    MOTHER'S   SERMON. 

Page  71.     Line  9,  "Here's,"to  line   19,  "speak."     Line  22,  "He's," 

to  line  25,  "  ye." 
P.  73.      Line  10,  "and,"  to  line  14,  "  thicket." 
P.  74.      Line  4,  "  Black,"  to  line   12,  "West."     Line  24,  "It,"  to  line 

28,  "close." 
P.  76.      Line  5,  "  The,"  to  line  19,   "pray." 
P.  77.      Line  5,  "When,"  to  line  22,  "expectation." 
P.  78.      Line  21,  "But,"  to  line  28,  "twenty-four." 
P.  79.     Line  12,  "  During,"  to  p.  80,  line  6,  "  voice." 


THROWN   AWAY. 

Page  130.     Line  2,  "  if,"  to  line  3,  "  himself." 

P.  131.     Line  23,  "Too,"  to  "  having,"  p.  132,  end  of  first  paragraph. 

P.  132.     Line  32,  "just,"  to  end  of  sentence. 

P.  133.  Line  4,  "and,"  to  end  of  sentence.  Line  25,  "You,"  to  line 
29,  "before."  Line  32,  "He,"  to  p.  134,  line  3,  "money- 
troubles." 

P.  134.  Line  22,  omit  "in  an  ekkay  Line  27,  "The,"  to  line  29, 
"  weather." 

P.  135.  Line  i,  "  There,"  to  end  of  sentence.  Line  15,  omit  phrase 
"  in  an  ekka  to  the  Canal."  Line  23,  from  "  We,"  to  end  of  para- 
graph. 

P.  136.      Line  12,  "and,"  to  line  14,  "flies." 

P.  137.  Line  14,  omit  phrase  "  I  respected  him  for  that."  Line  17, 
"We,"  to  end  of  sentence. 

P.  138.     Line  28,  "  The,"  to  end  of  paragraph. 

P.  139.     Line  8,  "  Finally,"  to  line  14,  "way." 

P.  140.     Line  9,  "  A  native,"  to  line  20,   "  are." 


HOW   JINNY   EASED    HER    MIND. 

Page  226.     Line  12,  "  It,"  top.  227,  line  29,  "him." 
P.  227.     Line  30,  for  '.'he  "  read  "the  judge." 
P.  229.     Line  24,  "Then,"  to  end  of  paragraph. 
P.  230.     Line  I,  "She  had,"  to  line  5,  "gout." 


SUGGESTIONS    FOR   CUTTING  553 


SORROW   OF    ROHAB. 

Page  255.     Omit  first  seven  lines  to  "day." 

P.  256.      Omit  first  sixteen  lines. 

P.  257.      Omit  first  nine  lines. 

P.  258.     Omit  first  twelve  lines. 

P.  259.     Line  12,  "  Like,"  to  line  16,  "death." 

P.  260.     Line  3,  "all,"  to  line  9,  "  cheeks."    Last  two  and  a  half  lines. 

P.  261.     Omit  last  three  lines. 

P.  262.     Omit  first  five  lines.      Line  12,  "With,"  to  line  15,  "boast." 

P.  263.  Line  9,  "From,"  to  line  13,  "heraldry  "  Line  19,  "  Thick- 
er," to  line  23,  "bank."     Line  26,  "  After, "  to  line  29,  "silence." 

P.  264.  Line  3,  "with,"  to  line  5,  "pomp."  Line  10,  "To,"  to  line 
12,  "  slaves." 

P.  265.      Line  17,  "As,"  to  line  22,  "  master's." 


MICHAEL. 

Page  354.      Lines  9-12.      Line  21,   foot  of  page,   to  p.  355.     Line  18, 

"gone,"  end  of  first   paragraph.       Line   21,    "An,"   to    "itself," 

p.  356,  end  of  first  paragraph. 
P.  357.      Line  21,  "Yet,"  to  "  field,"  end  of  paragraph. 
P.  358.      Line  6,  "Early,"  to  "flies,"  line  17.      Line  22,    "with,"  to 

line  24,  "  lake." 
P.  359.     Line   2,    "Effect,"  to   "earth,"  line  il.      Line  20,  beginning 

last  paragraph,  to  p.  360,  end  of  middle  paragraph. 
P.  362.      Line  26,  ".•Vt,"  to  "to  night."     Line  21,  p.  363. 
P.  364.     Line  18,  "Ten  times,"  to  end  of  paragraph. 
P.  366.      Line  5,  "  Even,"  to  "years,"  end  of  line  17. 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS 


Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  388, 

397 
Allingham,  William,  480 
Anonymous,  250,  395,  410,  411, 

428 
Anstey,  F.,  412 
Arnold,  Edwin,  347 
Arnold,  Matthew,  474 

Bates,  Arlo,  255 
Blanchard,  Laman,  382 
Browne,  Francis  F.,  271 
Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett, 

350 
Browning,    Robert,   266,    278, 

325.  488 
Buchanan,  Robert,  287 
Bunnkr,  II.  C,  295,  399 

Cavazzi,  E.,  143 
CooKK,  Rose  Terry,  466 
Crissey,  Forrest,  386 
Cuf.PERTsoN,  Anna  V.,  396 

Davis,  Richard  Harding,  3 
Dickens,  Charles,  182,  467 
DoBsoN,  Austin,  391 
Doyle,  A.  Conan,  407 
Drake's  Magazine,  222 
Drummond,    William    Henry, 

425,  444 
Dunbar,  Paul  Laurence,  421, 

445 
Eliot,  George,  333,  459,  519 

Field,  Eugene,    119,    154,  375, 
463,  469,  476 


Graves,  Albert  Percival,  436, 

442 
Greene,  Homer,  383 

Harte,  Francis  Bret,  269 
Hood,  Thomas,  409 
Hugo,  Victor,  93 

Jerome,  Jerome  K.,  173,  196 
Johnson,  Charles  F.,  392 
Johnson,  E.  Pauline,  485 

Keats,  John,  477 
Kellogg,  Sarah  W.,  39 
Kennedy,  David,  235,  246 

KlI'LING,      RUDYARD,      I30,      385, 

434.  483 

LfiSi^R,  Sidney,  339,  430,  490 
Le  Fanu,  Joseph  S.,  317 
London  Speaker,  314 
Longfellow,  Henry  W.,  280 
LouTHER,  Hal,  377 
Lover,  Samuel,  447 
Lytton,  Bulwer,  512 

McGaffey,  Ernest,  489 
Maclaren,  Ian,  70 
Martin,  William  Wesley,  451 
Merrill,  Margaret  M.,  124 
Miller,  Emily  H.,  462,  484 
Morgan,  Bessie,  424 
Murray,  W.  H.  H.,  81,  162 

Nadaud,  Gustave,  271 
Newbolt,  Henry,  323 

OusLEY,  Clarence  N.,  460 


555 


556 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS 


Page,  Thomas  Nelson,  226,  439 
Pearre,  O.  F.,  406 
PoE,    Edgar  Allan,   457,   458, 
472 

Rice,  Wallace,  304 
Robertson,  Harrison,  45 
Roche,  James  Jeffrey,  381 

Saxe,  John  S.,  404 

Shanly,  Charles  Dawson,  448 

Sill,    Edward  Rowland,    454, 

470,  471 
Smith,  F.  Hopkinson,  242 
Spalding,  Susan  Marr,  487 
Stephen,  James  K.,  400.  475 


Stockton,  Frank  R.,  200 
Stuart,  Ruth  McEnery,  211 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  309,  370,  493 
Thompson,  Francis,  455 
Tilton,  Theodore,  337 
Tooker,  Lewis  F.,  273 

Van  Dyke,  Henry,  452,  453 
Venables,  Gilbert,  190 

Watson,  William,  329 
Whitman,  Walt,  479 
Wilkins,  Mary  E.,  27,  300 
Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  296 
Wordsworth,     William,    354 
464,  465,  482 


INDEX    OF    TITLES 


A  Tale,  325 
A  NVoman's  Face,  475 
Annabel  Lee,  472 
Apple  Blossoms,  451 
Armgart,  519 

Ballad   of  Judas   Iscariot,  The, 

287 
Blank  Verse  in  Rhyme,  409 
Blind  Archer,  The,  407 
Boy  and  the  Angel,  The,  266 
Burglar  Bill,  412 

Candor,  399 
Carcassonne,  271 
Chiquita,  269 
Christmas  Guest,  A,  21 1 
Cyclopeedy,  The,  154 

Death  of  Moses,  The,  ^;i^ 
De  Nice  Leetle  Canadienne,  444 
Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchion- 
ess, 182 
Domine  Quo  Vadis,  329 
Dora,  309 

Early  Rising,  404 

"  Earth    Has    Not    Anything    to 

Show  More  Fair,"  464 
Eldorado,  457 
Elective  Course,  An,  397 
Emir's  Game  of  Chess,  The,  314 
Emma  and  Eginhard,  280 
Eulalie.  458 

Even  This  Shall  Pass  Away,  337 
Ex  Ore  Infantium,  455 


Fairies,  The,  480 

Falcon,  The,  493 

False  Love  and  True  Logic,  382 

Fate,  487 

Father's  Way,  375 

Fidele's  Grassy  Tomb,  323 

Gift  that  None  Could  See,  The, 
300 

Habitant,  The.  425 

Her  World,  484 

He  Understood,  396 

His  Mother's  Sermon,  70 

Home,  470 

How  Jinny  Eased  Her  Mind,  236 

How  the  Derby  was  Won,  45 

"If  All  the  Skies,"  452 

Imaginary  Invalid,  The,  196 

In  an  Atelier,  3S8 

Instans  Tyrannus,  278 

In  the  Children's  Hospital,  370 

Irish  Spinning  Wheel,  The,  442 

Japanese  Lullaby,  469 

Jean  Val  Jean  and  the  Bishop,  93 

Katie's  Answer,  428 
Kitty  of  Coleraine,  448 

Last  Fight,  The,  273 
Leper,  The,  206 
Life,  454 

Little  Boy  Blue,  476 
Little  Brown  Baby,  445 


557 


558 


INDEX    OI<"   TITLES 


Mandai.av,  434 

Ma's  Attic,  386 

Michael,  354 

Modern  Romans,  The,  392 

Mother  and  I'oet,  350 

My  Beacon,  462 

My  Love,  410 

My  Rival,  385 

O,  Captain  !   My  Captain!  479 
Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn,  477 
"  Oh,  May  I  Join    the   Choir   In- 
visible," 459 
Old  Man,  The,  119 
On  Babies,  173 
One- Legged  Goose,  The,  242 
"  One,  Two,  Three,"  295 
Opportunity,  454 

Tair  of  Fools,  A,  400 
Parson's  Conversion,  The,  162 
Power  of  Prayer,  The,  430 
Prospice,  488 

Rack  with  the  Flames,  The,  81 

Recessional,  483 

Reconsidered  \'erdict,  The,  190 

Return  of  the  Hoe,  The,  222 

Revenge  of  Ilamish,  The,  339 

Revolt  of  Mother,    The,  27 

Rib,  The,  489 

Richelieu,  Scene  from,  512 

Rip  Van  Winkle,  Scene  from,  544 

Rory  O'More,  447 

Rose  of  Ken  mare,  The,  436 

Sai'ndkks    McCiI.ashan's  Court- 
ship. 23s 
Second  Trial,  A,  30 
Secret  of  Death,    The,  347 


Self-Dependence,  474 

Shemus  O'Brien,  317 

Ship  of  Faith,  The,  250 

Snow  Song,  A,  453 

Song  My  Paddle  Sings,  The,  485 

Song  of  the  Chattahooche,  The,  490 

Sonnet  in  Dialogue,  A,  391 

Sorrow  of  Rohab,  The,  255 

Soul  of  the  Violin,  The,  124 

"  Spacially  Jim,"  424 

Spain's  Last  Armada,  304 

Spring  Twilight,  471 

Tkaks,  400 

That      t>ther      Baby     at      Rudder 

Grange,  200 
"The  World    is  Too   Much   With 

Us,"  465 
There  Were  Ninety  and  Nine,  3 
They  Went  Fishing,  411 
Things  That  Never  Die,  467 
Thrown  Away,   130 
To  Sleep,  482 
Truth  at  Last,  470 
Twa  Coortins,  'ihe,  246 
Two  Villages,  The,  466 

Unci.f.  Gauk's  White  Folks,  439 
Usual  Way,  The,  395 

Vask,  The,  3S1 

What  My  Lover  Said,  t^S^ 
What's  the  Difference,  406 
When  Angry  Count  a  Hundred,  143 
When  Malintlv  Sings,  421 
Wynken,  Blynken,  and  Nod,  463 

Yes  or  No,  377 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  OF  POETRY 


A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by  . 
A  painter  wrought  him  a  noble  dream  . 
As  beautiful  Kitty  one  morning  was  tripping  . 

Beautiful !     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar   isn't   her  match  in 
the  country     ...... 

Behind  them  slowly  sank  the  western  world  . 
By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom  . 
By  the  old  Moulmein  Pagoda,  lookin'  eastward  to  the 

Come  to  the  terrace.  May — the  sun  is  low 

Darkening  the  azure  roof  of  Nero's  world 
Dead  !  one  of  them  shot  by  the  sea  in  the  East 
De  place  I  get  born,  me,  is  up  on  de  reever    . 
Does  a  man  ever  give  up  hope,  I  wonder? 
Does  the  snow  fall  at  sea  ?     . 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair 
Even  is  come,  and  from  the  dark  Park,  hark  . 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 
Forenoon  and  afternoon  and  night — Forenoon 
From  the  madding  crowd  they  stand  apart 

Gaily  bedight,  a  gallant  knight 

God  bless  the  man  who  first  invented  sleep     . 

God  of  our  fathers,  known  of  old    . 

G'way  an'  quit  dat  noise.  Miss  Lucy 

Have  you  seen  an  apple  orchard  in  the  spring 

I  dwelt  alone  ...... 

I  go  to  concert,  party,  ball — what  profit  is  in  these 
"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,"  she  said 
I  looked  across  the  bay  ..... 

I  met  you,  dear,  I  met  you,  I  can't  be  robbed  of  that 

559 


Page 
482 
489 
448 


269 
484 

434 

391 

329 
350 
425 
470 
453 

464 
409 

488 

454 
381 

457 
404 

483 

421 

451 

458 
385 
399 
462 
400 


56(- 


TN^EX   OF   FIRST   LINES   OF    POETRY 


I'm  an  old  man  ;  I'm  sixty  years     . 

I  pray  you  do  not  turn  your  head    . 

I've  been  soft  in  a  small  way  .         ,         .         . 

I  wus  mighty  good  lookin'  when  I  wus  young 

If  all  the  skies  were  sunshine .... 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 

If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven    . 

It  was  an  old,  old,  old,  old  lady 

It  was  many  and  many  a  year  ago  . 

It  was  three  slim  does  and  a  ten-tined  buck  in  the  bracken  lay 

Jist  after  the  war  in  the  year  '98      . 

Leans  he  'gainst  the  old  Dutch  ingle 

Little  boy  Love  drew  his  bow  at  a  chance 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes 

Little  Jesus,  wast  Thou  shy    .... 

Mohammed  Emir  of  Granada  kept 

Morning,  evening,  noon  and  night . 

Moses,  who  spoke  with  God  as  with  a  friend  . 

My  father  was  no  pessimist ;  he  loved  the  things  of  earth 

My  heart  will  break — I'm  sure  it  will 

My  love  (dear  man)  turns  in  his  toes 

O  Captain  !  my  captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done 

Och,  Katie's  a  rogue,  it  is  thrue 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less 

Oh,  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible   . 

Once  in  Persia  reigned  a  king. 

One  morning  when  Spring  was  in  her  teens    . 

Our  doctor  had  called  in  another,  I  never  had  seen  him  before 

Out  of  the  hills  of  Habersham 

Over  the  village  on  the  hill      .... 

Pat  Flyn  had  sixty-seven  hats         .         . 

Robin  rashly  kissed  my  hand  .... 
"  Room  for  the  leper !     Room  !  "  and  as  he  came 

Sarvent,  Marster  !     Yes,  sah,  dats  me     . 
Show  me  a  sight  bates  for  delight  .         .         . 
Singing  in  the  rain,  robin        .... 
Sleep,  little  pigeon,  and  fold  your  wings. 
Sometimes,  when  I've  been  'spesh'ly  good 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES   OF    rOETRV 


561 


That  night  I  think  that  no  one  slept 

The  bloom  that  lies  on  Hilda's  cheek 

The  foes  of  Rohab  thrust  the  tongue  in  cheek 

The  good  a  man  does  from  time  to  time 

The  little  toy  dog  is  covered  with  dust    . 

The  pure,  the  bright,  the  beautiful  . 

The  Squire  sat  propped  in  a  pillowed  chair      . 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us,  late  and  soon 

There  are  silver  pines  on  the  window  pane 

There  lies  a  city  in  the  hills    .... 

There's  sumpen  in  a  woman's  tears  that  makes 
sorter      ....... 

There  was  once  a  little  man  and  his  rod  and  line  he  too 

They  fling  their  flags  upon  the  morn 

This  I  beheld,  or  dreamed  it  in  a  dream  . 

Thou  still  unravished  bride  of  quietness . 

Through  a  window  in  the  attic 

'Twas  the  body  of  Judas  Iscariot    . 

Two  shall  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart 

Under  the  slanting  light  of  the  yellow  sun  of  October 
Up  the  airy  mountain     .... 

Weary  of  myself  and  sick  of  asking 

West  Wind  blow  from  your  prairie  nest 

What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

When  Alcuin  taught  the  sons  of  Charlemagn 

When  they  came  unto  the  riverside 

With  Farmer  Allan  at  the  farm  abode    . 

Wynken,  BIynken  and  Nod  one  night     . 


You  can  pass  on  de  worl'  w'erever  you  lak 
You,  Dinah !     Come  and  set  me  whar  de  r 
meet        ...... 

Young  Rory  O'jMore  courted  Kathleen  bawn 


bber 


road 


does 


Date  Due 

i>lQM     ^ 

BTO 

DEC    ' 

? 1970  8 

WPS  DG 

Ti  r^vm 

Li: 

f) 

AA    001  265  286    3 


3  1210  00331  3564 


C5 


PNli201 


C^ 


Clark,   S.H.,  ed. 


Handbook  of  best  readings. 


DATE   DUE 


BORROWER'S   NAME 


Clark,  S.H.,   ed. 

Plandbook  of  best  readin<^s. 


COLON 

45 
New  York 

We     Hu 


